


This Darkness (which you know you cannot fight)

by RiddleRedCoats



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, BAMF Black Family, Bad Death Eaters, Bad character is good, Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), F/M, Good Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Good Order of Phoenix, M/M, Multi, No Bashing, OOC Bellatrix, OOC Voldemort - Freeform, Order of Phoenix Bellatrix, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Sane Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Silver Trio, Slow Burn, Starts after Harry Potter's First Year, Teacher Bellatrix Black Lestrange, The Golden Trio, There's an OC planned for this so, Worldbuilding, no really, tagged relationships are endgame but others may appear, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleRedCoats/pseuds/RiddleRedCoats
Summary: In a world where Bellatrix Black never joined the Death Eaters, surprisingly little changes during the First War with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But destiny has a funny way of messing with the Wizardry World.OR: Bellatrix tries to escape destiny but keeps reluctantly meeting it(and having dinner with it)much to her chagrin. And in her flight tries to drag her nephew along with her...with mixed results.Starts after Harry Potter's First Year.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _Italics_ \- characters' thoughts.
> 
> This is obviously an AU.  
> And while Bellatrix is mentioned the most it's because she's the one who changes the most from canon, this is an ensemble fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall react to the end of Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts and the whole Quirrel disaster.

 

Sunlight glinted against the stone of the enormous castle, casting playful shadows across the grounds of the world-famous Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The bright early June morning brought along fresh air after a terrifying night for three little first-year students.  

 

Inside its long halls, Albus Dumbledore sighed and closed his twinkling blue eyes as soon as the doors to the infirmary shut close behind him, leaving inside an injured green-eyed little boy that had his father’s looks, yes, but his mother’s spirit as well. Dumbledore allowed a small smile at the thought of his former students. _Lily and James would be so proud of their boy._ His smile then lost some of its luster when he continued with the fantasy of his students being alive. _And they’d probably kill me for putting him in so much danger._ Dumbledore shuddered, thinking of Lily’s brilliant green eyes glinting dangerously at him for putting her boy in danger, and of James’ burning hazel eyes narrowing disapprovingly at him.  

 

He turned around and started the long walk back to his office, but before leaving the infirmary completely, he spared a nod at Madam Pomfrey, who eyed him with a disproving glint in her dim blue eyes and a little sneer on her face as he passed without another word and set off to his office. Only when he was finally away from her terrifying gaze – he could admit that there were very few people that instilled the fear of the Gods in him as well as Poppy Pomfrey – he finally breathed a little sigh of relief and then, as the full scale of just how **_abysmal_** this year had been hit him, he winced a little.

 

Madam Pomfrey’s criticism – and anger – were more than justified. He, in his hubris, had put an entire roster of a thousand students in danger, had left the school when it needed him the most and left the uncommonly brave little 1st Year Gryffindor students to solve the problem he had created when he’d hired Quirinus Quirrell.  

 

The old Headmaster, who had seen more than his fair share of troubled people and impossible odds, couldn’t help but sigh when he thought of the deceased Professor he had hired three years ago to teach at his school.

 

Quirinus Quirrell had had an impeccable resume; he had spent some time in Albany studying the dark creatures that dwelled on those forests, he had written one or two papers about the application of the Dark Arts and how to defend oneself against them and had taught at one of the lesser known schools in Britain where he had been well-liked by his former students and his peers. He had looked perfect for the job, and when he had survived his first year, Albus thought that the curse was finally over. Now that he had come to know the truth, Albus knew that it had only been Voldemort’s presence that had mitigated and drowned out the effects of whatever curse the man had indeed placed upon the position.

 

Still, Dumbledore could not deny that Quirrell – _Voldemort?_ He wondered. _Just who had been in charge of whatever complicated arrangement they had…_ – had been an excellent teacher. In the past three years, students’ marks in DADA had risen higher than they’d ever been, O.W.L. and N.E.W.T score average were well above the previous years’ result, and students seemed to actually like their professor despite his almost-debilitating stammer. 

 

As he passed a giggling gaggle of 5th Year girls, he waved a little at them, making them giggle even harder and wave back. He smiled a little as he heard them talk about his bright purple robes.

 

The students were aware – or at least had the most basic of details – of what had happened, and Albus suspected that young Mister Potter’s life would only become more complicated as time went on and that his fame would only grow much to Albus’ discontentment; the boy had been through enough, he should be able to have a normal childhood, but Tom clearly had no ideas of leaving everyone and everything well and truly alone.

 

Albus had always known, with a conviction he could not explain, that Tom was out there alive, gathering strength and allies. Albus had known that the war had never truly ended and that it had merely been postponed.  Albus knew that the war that had taken so many lives in its first round, was right around the corner again and that there was still so much to be done, no matter how he had prepared in the last decade.

 

As Albus rounded the corner of the corridor that gave way to his office and found himself face-to-face with a little Slytherin boy, his silver-and-green tie and black robes perfectly pressed and perfectly donned, and his white-blond hair styled with gel and pushed back, giving the eleven-year-old a look not entirely dissimilar to Malfoys of old, although, Albus could not deny a certain hint of Black emanating off of him.  

 

“Headmaster.”

 

The boy spoke and as always Albus internally flinched at the fake tone emanating from the Pureblood boy. _This is the problem with Purebloods_ , Albus thought, _this inherited fakeness that they can’t seem to shake off, that they can’t seem to mask and always leaves me just this side of uncomfortable._ Albus was of the opinion that no child ought to sound like that, and yet, Draco Malfoy seemed to impersonate his ilk just fine.

 

But no matter how well his parents had trained their boy to be the perfect heir to Pureblood society, he was still a child and Albus could clearly see into the greyish blue eyes of the boy and know why exactly the young Malfoy had gotten up so early today to stand in front of his office.

 

“He is fine, Mister Malfoy.” Dumbledore allowed the young boy the news he so clearly craves. The rivalry between Harry and the young Malfoy heir was unquestionably the highlight of the year for many students and even some teachers. And even the boys themselves had evolved due to the rivalry.  

 

Dumbledore smiled as he watched little Draco Malfoy lift his chin arrogantly in a gesture the Headmaster could identify as being entirely born out of Narcissa Malfoy’s own almost unbearably large ego. The tone that the blond boy then used, however, was entirely Malfoy, “It’s not like I cared, Headmaster. Potter could be kicked out for all I care.” The boy snarls in an impressive simile of his father.

 

Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes were firmly in place when he nodded at the boy, “I am sure, Mister Malfoy.” He assured the boy. Next, with a small smile on his thin lips, he added, “And happy birthday, my boy.”

 

“Thank you.” Is the automatic answer that Draco, raised from birth to be the perfect scion of Pureblood society, gave. Then the boy scowled then as what Dumbledore said fully hit him, and here Albus is reminded of a young Sirius Black, “And I’m **_not_** your boy.” 

 

“Of course not.” Albus easily acquiesced and watched Draco Malfoy narrow his eyes at the blatant pandering the Albus gave him. “Now, I’m sure your friends are looking for you, Mister Malfoy, and you wouldn’t want to be late for breakfast, would you? The pumpkin tart is disappearing rather quickly these days.”

 

Draco eyes remained narrow in distaste at his dismissal but soon enough the boy was moving towards the entrance that gave way to the Great Hall, a spring in his step as the news of Harry Potter’s sure recovery seemed to manifest unconsciously within the boy.

 

Albus Dumbledore turned up his thin lips, his blue eyes twinkling in unison with his smile as the something seemed to slide into place as an idea regarding the young Mister Malfoy and Mister Potter formed in his mind. Albus wondered exactly how all of this was going to end.

 

With a sigh, Albus turned to face the entrance to his office. With his luck, Minerva was already there, an entirely earned disapproving scowl on her face as she waited for him to arrive, so she could throw her aggrievances in his face. With a last deep breath, Albus Dumbledore passed the threshold to the passageway that led to his office.

 

It was time to face the music. 

* * *

 

Minerva made sure to cross her arms in a disproving gesture when she heard the door to the Headmaster’s office open. She took in the bright purple-robed wizard, who was one of the most powerful wizards of their – and probably **_any_** – time. She took in his despondent blue eyes, the tiredness in his step and his hunched figure as if the very world hung on his shoulders. Touched by the man’s humbleness in face of his mistakes, Minerva relaxed her stance a little, there was nothing she could say that he hadn’t said to himself already.

 

“Come,” She sighed and gestured towards the desk where a tea set waited for them, “I’ve made tea.”

 

Albus nodded, and Minerva could detect a hint of gratefulness in his eyes. With a heavy step that Minerva knew he’d ever seldom show to anyone, Albus walked over to his desk and instead of sitting himself in his chair, sitting opposite to Minerva, he chose to sit on the visitors' side of the desk. Minerva sat beside him, not a word exchanged between them.

 

The set poured itself into the white cups, with a little help from her magic. Silence reigned as the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress shared a cup of tea, each reflecting on the poor year they’d had. Then, after their second cup was empty and the teapot was well below being half-full, Albus spoke, stroking his long white beard as he did so, his blue lost in thought as he shared what was on his mind. 

 

“I have an idea.”

 

That tone. Minerva shudders at it, she knew that tone all too well. It usually meant trouble. Like the time he had roped her into being the Head of House of the most impulsive, brash young people to ever grace the corridors of this school. Or the time he had challenged her for a little bet which had ended up with her knee-deep in a pool of mud and him standing over her looking as pristine as always – even if in slightly psychedelic colours – looking at her with a somewhat sorrowful – and fake, **_very_** fake, she could tell – look in his eyes. Or the time he…

 

Minerva sighed.

 

Yes, that tone meant trouble. Trouble for her, specifically.

 

Dumbledore, unaware or most likely too-amused to comment on her inner struggles, elaborated on his brilliant idea. “You and I both know that Voldemort-…” At her wince, Dumbledore arched an eyebrow, which she waved away much to his amusement, “…-that **_Tom_** claims to have cursed the entire position of DADA professor.” Minerva nodded, and waited for him to continue, which he did in an almost apologetic tone, “I was thinking; there is someone who is familiar with his curses and who can usually get out of them pretty easily…”

 

“Oh, no.” Minerva, epiphany clear in her sea-green eyes, gasped in near-horror.

 

“…Well, I’m sure you remember…”

 

“Oh, no.” Minerva repeated.

 

“…I think we should really go for her…”

 

“Absolutely not!” She finally snapped. “Albus, for Merlin’s sake! She’s a … She’s a… I don’t even know what she is!” Minerva’s famous Gryffindor temper flared, her eyes flashed with fiery anger. “She is the wrong choice for these students!”

 

“She’s the only one that has a fighting chance against the curse, Minerva. These students need consistence, need someone who knows the war, someone who fought it and understands the consequences and…” Dumbledore sighed, “…as much as it pains me to admit, someone who understands both sides. Both light and dark.”

 

Minerva rolled her eyes at him, “And which side is she on, Albus?” Minerva persisted, “She might have fought for the Order, but she was never truly with us.” She reminded him. “She believes in **_what_** he’s doing, she just doesn’t like **_how_** he’s doing it. How can we trust her, Albus?”

 

“We can’t. And you’re right, I don’t know which side she’s on.” Dumbledore admitted. And then with a soft voice, “I don’t think **_she_** even knows what side she’s on.”

 

Minerva sighed, defeated. Dumbledore’s mind was set, and when his mind was set there was nothing and no one who could dissuade him. She leaned back in her chair and turned her face to pinch the bridge of her nose as he whispered the words that would define generations to come.

 

“So it is decided,” Dumbledore spoke, resolute, “Bellatrix Black will be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a little different from what I'm used to, mainly because while the whole fic is more or less plotted I haven't written most of it... So it will take a quite while to update.  
> I have about 17 chapters planned but it can go up since I plan to split the honestly enormous content of the chapters, so yeah.  
> Tell me what you think! :D


	2. Weasley Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter tries to have a normal trip to Diagon Alley but can't because he's Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am now actively borrowing the formatting from ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’. Oops? Chapters will be shorter, which (hopefully) means more updates, more often. Yay? But yeah, each chapter will be told from certain characters POV (though no first person) and yeah hope you enjoy.
> 
> Also, I know this first chapter is heavily based on canon with Minor tweaks but it will be like that for a while, but then I kinda shoot canon in a back-alley somewhere (eventually).
> 
>  _Italics_ still = the characters' thoughts.  
>  **Bold** = spells/curses/magic/(and eventually parseltongue)

Harry Potter coughed as he sprung out of the fireplace, the smoke that ought to not be there at all if one was to use fireplaces – _Bloody fireplaces!,_ Harry’s dazed mind supplied the boy with the incredulous note – to travel from one place to another, had entered his airways when he had used the Weasley’s Floo to go to Diagon Alley.

 

Harry stepped out of the dim fireplace and started to shake his head as dust and ash seemed to continuously fall from his locks of unruly hair. With a sigh, he started using his hands to shake off the majority of the tiny flecks of dirt lodged in his jet-black locks until more and more little white particles of ash fell from his ever-messy hair. Harry, though not one to particularly dwell on his appearance, dreaded to think what he must look like… With little spots of white dust all over his dark hair, his naturally brown face probably sullied black from soot, not to mention his already unflattering clothes.

 

With a grudging moan, he bent over and started swatting away the biggest spots of black soot that clung to his too-big clothes. He paid special attention around his knobbly-knees since for some reason the soot seemed to have accumulated on that particular region.  When he was satisfied – though **_barely_** – with the appearance of his jeans, he finally lifted his head to take a look at where he had landed.

 

 _What… Bloody hell!_ Was all that Harry’s beleaguered mind could come up once he took in the state of the place he had landed in; ‘Dark, demented and deathly’ seemed to be the motto of the store, with its severed hands, humming sickening magic and black décor. _Well, this is one shop in Diagon Alley I’ve never been in…_

 

When he looked outside the window and instead of the brightly lit, cobblestone street saw a dark, twisty Alley, he felt a chill run down his spine. _This is not Diagon Alley. Where in the blooming hell, am I?_ Harry started panicking, his mind conjuring up all sorts of scenarios of the places he could have ended up on and how far was he from Diagon Alley and the Weasley Family.

 

Then, as if his panic wasn’t enough he heard in the distance the distinctive voice of his own personal rival. Harry peaked again out of the window and saw Draco Malfoy, with his perfectly combed back blond hair, his greyish blue eyes and tall, thin frame walking behind a man that could only be his father. The resemblance was remarkable, it was like looking at the adult version of Draco.

 

Although to Harry, Draco’s features were more pronounced; the boy’s cheeks were more deeply carved into his skin instead of his father’s softer – though, **_barely_** – cheekbones; Draco’s jaw was also more angular, with jagged handsome lines; and Draco’s eyes while certainly blue – Harry had spent enough time imagining fighting nose-to-nose with Draco to know the colour of his eyes – therein laid a swirl of deep grey that just **_had_** to be unmatched by other.

 

Similar, yes. But not identical, startling – startling to Harry, anyway – differences separated them.

 

Harry saw them walking straight to the store he was currently in and he reflected on his appearance; broken glasses, snoot covered face, and hand-me-down clothes… He couldn’t let Malfoy see him like this. _Not in this lifetime, never again,_ Harry thought, remembering how last year he had encountered Draco at Madam Walkin’s, in his hand-me-down clothes and naïve perception of Wizardry World at large.

 

With a quick reflex, Harry ducked behind a curtain and found a hideaway that permitted him to stay out of sight but very much able to hear whatever was about to take place and have a limited view of the store’s counter.

 

The store’s door opened and immediately the voices of the Malfoy duo echoed in the small space.

 

“I thought you were buying me a present?” Harry heard Draco talk and had to roll his eyes at the utter entitlement he heard in the blond’s voice, oh-so-similar to Dudley. _What a snobby brat._

 

“I am. I’m buying you a broom, but first I have errands to run.” Lucius Malfoy’s voice startled Harry who had never heard the man speak, even if he had heard of the blond-haired man before. It was a low voice, showing a hint of a subtle accent that Harry could not place. It sounded far too posh. Arrogant. Dainty, too. In short, it embodied perfectly what Harry thought Malfoy Senior would sound like, little unplaced accent and all.

 

Draco scoffed and proceeded to complain about Harry and the fact that he was on the Quidditch team. Harry heard Malfoy rave and rant about him and felt a sense of accomplishment. _At least I annoy him as much as he annoys me,_ Harry thought with a smirk as Malfoy’s father expressed with somewhat amused befuddlement his exasperation at Malfoy’s apparent frequent rants about him.  

 

While the two Malfoys talked in low tones, a door that laid beyond the counter swung open and a raspy voice greeted father and son, a hint of eagerness could be heard in the man’s voice and though Harry didn’t know him there was a greediness to his voice that settled wrong on Harry’s throat.

 

“Ah, Lord Malfoy. And young Master Malfoy.”

 

Harry craned his neck to see the face of the man who had spoken – _And really? **Lord** Malfoy? **Master** Malfoy? What the hell?_, the back of Harry’s mind echoed while he forced himself to pay attention. The man who Harry suspected was the owner of the store was small, and thin – almost dangerously so – and stomped around hunched over as if he could not stand straight at all. His hair was white and pasty, oily to a point where Harry could truly compare it to Snape’s and the man’s eyes were dark and small, like glass beads. 

 

Lucius Malfoy though was unconcerned by the man’s appearance, and with a cool voice spoke, “Good afternoon, Mister Borgin.”

 

“Lord Malfoy,” Harry watched the sniveling man bow deeply towards the elder Malfoy and speak with an oily voice, clearly buttering up the blond man, “What in my store has attracted the attention of one such as yourself?”

 

“I’ve not come to buy, but to sell.” Lucius Malfoy’s haughty voice interrupted and his disavowal of buying made the store owner – _Mr. Borgin, was his name I think,_ Harry tried committing the name to memory – let out a little moan of misery.

 

But when the elder Malfoy then laid a parchment on the table, Harry heard Mr. Borgin’s sharp intake of breath and cursed the terrible viewing angles of his hiding spot. Whatever was on the table, must be something of great value. Still, he didn’t hear Mr. Borgin move to take the parchment or even analyze it, merely leaning over the desk to take a look at what Harry now understood to be a list of items.

 

“You’re considering selling these, Lord Malfoy?” Borgin’s tone conveyed disbelief and awe, “Surely these items – especially number 4 – would be… hidden treasures best saved for a rainy day, no?”

 

“Indeed.” Malfoy’s father seemed as reluctant to sell the items as Mr. Borgin was incredulous at the offer on the table, “But Ministry raids are increasing in response to that nonsense of the Muggle Protection Act, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And while the name Malfoy commands some respect, -… “

 

“…The Black name trumps nearly every other.” Mr. Borgin finished for the elder blond, who Harry would have thought would be furious at being interrupted, but instead just nodded in agreement with a sneer on his face that was instantly recognizable by Harry as one that Draco seemed to prefer. The raspy voice belonging to the store owner rose again, “Am I to assume that your sister-in-law is somehow involved in this?”

 

“Astute as always Mr. Borgin.” Harry could almost feel the sarcasm in the elder Malfoy’s voice. “Of course she’s involved in this. She co-sponsored the bloody Act herself with that Blood-Traitor Weasley.” Harry felt a surge of anger rise within him at Malfoy’s treatment of a man that had been so kind to him, a man so kind and **_good_** as Mister Weasley.

 

“Strange.” Commented Borgin, seemingly used to Malfoy’s sarcastic tone as he paid no mind to it. Then the greying man rubbed his chin in a pondering gesture, “Doesn’t she-…”

 

“…Have a larger assortment of even darker artefacts than the ones I currently own? Why yes, yes she does. The hypocrisy of that woman knows no bounds.” Malfoy – both senior and junior – snorted though Harry had the faint suspicious it was for different reasons.

 

Harry watched with a growing feeling of dread as Draco walked away from his father to peruse the store and as he passed Harry’s little hiding place he heard the blond mutter, too lowly for his father to even be able to tell that he had spoken.

 

“If mother hears him speak like that of aunt Bella…” The blond let the phrase hang in the air, the mere mention of it seemed enough to amuse Draco on the consequences of such an event.

 

On Harry’s other side, Malfoy Senior and Mr. Borgin continued their none-too-thin veiled attacks on Draco’s aunt.

 

“Lady Black is indeed a… strange… client.”

 

“’Client’, uhm?” Lucius’ voice became thinly veiled with interest at Mister Borgin’s words.

 

The store owner carefully added to his previous statement, “And I’m sure you know, Lord Malfoy, of the norm that we have to not keep records of purchase, nor do we have any records of whom we buy our merchandise from.”

 

Harry could swear that he heard the elder Malfoy clench his teeth in anger at the reminder, even if it was probably the main reason that the Malfoy patriarch used Mister Borgin’s store. But it seemed like Lucius Malfoy had as much tact as his son when he wanted something he could not get… Which is none, they had **_zero_** tact.

 

“It’d be an awful shame for you to lose your business with the Malfoy family over a little norm like that.”

 

“I have no intention of sowing the wrath of the Malfoy family, my Lord Malfoy,” the store owner rushed to explain, “But neither do I wish for the considerable weight of the Black family to fall upon my shoulders as I’m sure you understand.”

 

Lucius Malfoy nodded non-committedly with a discontented grunt. The two men proceeded to talk in low tones about a time where Mister Borgin could come to Malfoy Manor. _Of course, of course they have a bloody Manor, what else?_ Harry raged in his mind that the Malfoy Family managed to live so ostentatiously while the Weasleys had to scrap by. Harry saw Draco approaching back to the counter with a bemused smirk on his face.

 

“There’s a hand in here that promises glory and luck.”

 

“Ah, yes, young Master Malfoy,” Mister Borgin’s voice took a decided interest in Draco, “It was a difficult acquire, but it is indeed very… advantageous. If the young Master Malfoy is truly interested, I could make a fair price.”

 

Draco sneered at the man, “I am a Malfoy. I’ve no need for luck.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, tired of Malfoy’s inflated ego.

 

Lucius smirked, “My son has spoken, Mister Borgin. I’ll see you next week.”

 

“Until next time, my Lord Malfoy. Young Master Malfoy.” Harry heard the two Malfoys walk quietly towards the door, the sound contrasting with Mister Borgin’s stomping footsteps and undignified muttering, “I can only imagine the artefacts you’re **_not_** disclosing to me, you arrogant fool.”

 

Finally alone, Harry hurried out of the store, careful not to touch anything on his way out. As he looked around the stifling, dark, magically-loaded street, he managed not to panic as he recognized nothing. Still, he made sure to remember the name of the store he had been on, ‘Borgin and Burkes’, just in case he happened to walk around in circles.

 

He started running towards where he could hear the sounds of rushing people, passing by darkly dressed people also hurrying everywhere building, even more, the tension around him. He ran through curve and counter-curve trying to find something – **_anything_** – that seemed familiar.

 

Just as he was about to despair a voice boomed in the street.

 

“’Arry! ‘Arry!”

 

Harry relaxed immediately, he knew that voice. That voice had saved him from a horrible life barely more than one year ago. He had never felt gladder to hear Hagrid’s voice.

 

“Hagrid!” Harry almost yelled, “I was with the Weasleys and then I used the fireplace and I got lost and I ended up at a store and-…”

 

“Slow down, ‘Arry! It’s alrig’t lad, just breathe. I’ve seen the Weasleys they looked all in pieces looking for something.” Harry felt a pang in chest at causing such trouble, “But everyt’ing is alrig’t, now. I’ll take you to ‘em. Knockturn Alley is not for respectable young ‘ogwarts’ students anyway.”

 

Hagrid started walking with Harry right behind him.

 

“And what were you doing here?”

 

Hagrid looked down at him before pointing to the two containers in his hands, “Pesticides for the ‘ogwarts grounds.”

 

Harry hummed non-committedly. He and Hagrid walked in silence through the dark twists and counter-twists of this darker version of Diagon Alley. When they finally reached a lighter path, Harry heard the voice of Arthur Weasley sounding a little more frenzied than usual.

 

“Hagrid! Hagrid! Have you seen-…” Mister Weasley stopped mid-sentence as he saw Harry standing beside the half-giant, “Oh. Harry! Are you okay? Where did you end up?”

 

Hagrid smiled at the Weasley patriarch, “Hi, Arthur! He was at Knockturn Alley.”

 

“ ** _What_**?!” Mister Weasley quickly turned to look at Harry, “Are you alright?”

 

Harry nodded quietly a little afraid that he’d be yelled at for getting lost and having to be rescued from the mess he had dragged himself into.

 

“Rig’t as rain, ‘e is! Now, go on, ‘Arry.” Hagrid smiled at him and nodded towards Mr. Weasley.

 

“What about you?”

 

“I ‘ave to go pick somet’ings up. See you at ‘ogwarts.”

 

“Goodbye, Hagrid. Thank you.” Harry turned towards Hagrid, his green eyes were grateful towards the half-giant who had once again saved him from a near hopeless situation. 

 

“Anytime, ‘Arry.”

 

Harry turned towards Mister Weasley who ushered him to his side. The tall, slender, ginger-haired man turned to the half-giant with a smile.

 

“Yes, thank you, Hagrid! I’ll take care of him now, don’t worry.”

 

“Make sure you do.” Hagrid smiled happily at Mister Weasley, trusting him completely to fulfill his promise.

 

Harry and Mister Weasley waved Hagrid off, and Mister Weasley now turned to truly look at Harry running his blue eyes all over him making sure he was alright.

 

“Are you okay, Harry?”

 

“Yes, Mister Weasley.” Harry answered truthfully and added, “No one saw me in the store or even leaving the store.”

 

“Store?” Mister Weasley sounded confused.

 

“Yes. Borgin and Burkes. I saw Malfoy and his father there.”

 

“At Borgin and Burkes?” At Harry’s nod, Mister Weasley’s blue eyes flashed behind his glasses, “Did they buy anything?”

 

“Buy? No.” Harry answered unhappily, feeling as if he wasn’t giving the desired answer, “They went in to sell something they have at the Manor.”

 

“Shame.” The man lamented, “I so wanted to catch Lucius with his hand on the cake jar.”

 

Harry thought he meant ‘cookie jar’ but he let Mister Weasley’s little mistake slide in lieu of asking a question, “They started mentioning something about the ‘Muggle Protection Act’ and Malfoy’s aunt…” Harry could not deny an interest though mild on the woman who irritated the elder Malfoy so much.

 

“Ah, yes. Bellatrix Black.” Harry nearly snorted – _‘ **Bellatrix’** , what kind of name is that? And I complained about Draco…_\- but made sure to pay attention to what Mister Weasley was saying, “Well, Black and I **_were_** working on it together. In secret, mind you. After all, her views on Muggles don’t differ much from Malfoy’s. And I suspect that she only worked with me for the sole purpose of getting her brother-in-law into some trouble. Of course that since she was working on it, it means she gets an exemption on the Act.” The tone in Mr. Weasley’s voice implied that he wasn’t very happy with that outcome.  

 

Harry hummed and wondered why Malfoy had only spoken of Black and barely of the Weasleys. He quickly figured that Malfoy hadn’t mentioned it because the idea of a Weasley beating a Malfoy seemed too humiliating to mention. Still, it seemed that Draco’s aunt and his father were cut from the same cloth, being like-minded people squabbling over power and riches and prestige, like the Lords and Ladies he heard of in his History classes.

 

“Come on. Let’s go join the rest.” Arthur held out his hand, expecting Harry to hold his large hand while they crossed the crowded streets of Diagon Alley. Harry hesitated to take the man’s hand, no matter how much Mr. Weasley had always made him feel comfortable. Arthur, not feeling Harry accepting his hand, smiled, his thin lips curving slightly, “It’s alright, Harry. I always forget that not all my children like being held.”

 

Harry felt like a punch had struck him right in the gut. While he was sure that Mr. Weasley had not meant it like **_that_** , Harry could not deny the near hopeless need to be part of a family that wanted him. That worried for him. That comforted him when he needed it. Harry had always crossed the street alone, no one had ever offered him a hand to help him across. Until now.  

 

Still, despite the abject need to accept Mr. Weasley’s hand, he was still reluctant. The ginger-haired man seemed to pick up on his discomfort in a way that only a father of seven could possess. Mister Weasley’s smile never faltered as he seemed to find a solution to Harry’s hesitation.

 

“Walk in front of me.” Harry positioned himself as Arthur had instructed and then felt the man's hand gently around the back of his neck and shoulder. With a careful hand, lightly pressing against his back, Mister Weasley led him from the intersection of where Knockturn Alley ended and Diagon Alley began to where he had agreed to meet with the rest of his family.  

 

They dodged and ducked behind and around the people in the busy street and in the distance, Harry could finally see the sign to the Flourish and Blotts. He rushed his step, eager to meet again with Ron and his family, and as he approached the store he spotted a familiar dark-brown, bushy head of hair.

 

“Harry!” The green-eyed boy barely had time to brace himself before a bushy-haired girl threw herself into his embrace. Harry wheezed at the force behind the impact but quickly smiled into the hug and wrapped his arms around the girl.

 

“Hello, Hermione.” Harry said fondly.

 

The brown-haired girl separated herself from him and set her usually-gentle brown eyes to analyze seemingly every part of Harry’s thin, small form. Harry twitched under the unnerving gaze of the black-skinned little witch that was his best-friend and watched as she pursed her lips when her stare detected, even through the baggy blue shirt he donned, his visible ribs. Her lips then seemed to disappear when she noticed his round glasses, where once again, the bridge was broken.

 

That seemed to be her breaking point. 

 

With an exasperated sigh, Hermione swiftly took her wand out of its holster and with quick move pointed it right to Harry’s face. To his credit, Harry didn’t even flinch and merely stood as Hermione casually waved it and uttered the same spell she had not even a year ago.

 

“ **Oculus Reparo**.” The girl spoke with a clear voice and her wand rushed to obey the command she had issued. Within seconds the tape that had been holding his glasses together was rendered useless as the frame repaired itself.  

 

 “Thanks, Hermione.”

 

“Don’t mention it, Harry.” The bushy-haired girl smiled brightly at him, and then proceeded to brush something off his shirt, “I’m just glad that Ronald and his brothers got you out of there.”

 

“Yeah, we sure got him out of there.” Ron shrugged as if was obvious and commonplace to rip the barred windows of a respectable suburban house, and not the kindest, most loving thing Harry remembered anyone ever doing for him.

 

“Good.”

 

Hermione’s response had Harry turning to look at her wide-eyed. His friend - his smart, rule-abiding friend – had just advocated for kidnapping. Well, **_willing_** kidnapping… but still. Before he could dwell on it, a loud voice stark with relief could be heard even through the crowd. 

 

“Harry!”

 

He turned towards where the sound was coming and saw Molly Weasley trailed by Ginny, Fred and George rushing towards him. Mrs. Weasley, not as considerate – but as loving and as concerned – as her husband, firmly wrapped her arms around him and Harry could almost feel her relief through the strong embrace.  

 

“Harry, I was so worried!” Mrs. Weasley, squeezed him to her heavy form, her red hair tickling his nose and her hand-made clothes soft against his skin. Harry absorbed the motherly hug until Ron spoke, his voice amused by the scene.

 

“Mum, for Merlin’s sake, you’ll strangle poor Harry.”

 

Mrs. Weasley after one last squeeze let of got of Harry and he go his first glimpse of the group who had been searching all over for him, he saw them all looking a little haggard and breathless but most importantly he saw no bags in their hands.

 

“You still haven’t gone to **_Ollivanders_**?”

 

Molly chuckled, relief clouding her every movement, “We haven’t gotten  ** _anything_** done!” Then with a motherly tone that seemed to be inherit in her, she spoke carefully to Harry, “We were looking for you, dear.” Molly smiled at him and her hand flew to his hair as if to tame it though it was a hopeless task. Still, Harry couldn’t help but feel his chest expand and tighten as a warm feeling washed over him at the concern and loving affection that the Weasley family freely gave him.

 

Ginny smiled at him behind her mother’s back, “I’m glad you’re okay, Harry.” Then as the words she’d said hit her, she blushed to the root of her hair. “…I-I mean… Mum, we should go.” He watched bewildered as Ginny, tiny as she was, practically dragged her mother away, in a bee-line straight to **_Ollivanders_**.

 

“I dunno what’s wrong with her these days,” Ron muttered beside him and from his left he heard Hermione huff in a chuckle, seemingly seeing something in Ginny’s behaviour that Ron – or Harry, for that matter – couldn’t decipher.   

 

“Well…” Mister Weasley spoke, sounding almost as bewildered as Ron and Harry felt “…While me and the girls go get Ginny’s wand, why don’t the four of you…” he pointed to Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George, “… go walk around a little. As long as the **_two of you_** ,” Mister Weasley pointed at the twins who winked at their father, “behave yourselves.” 

 

The twins nodded, and as soon as Mr. Weasley left to trail behind his wife and daughter, all four of them turned to go straight – much to Hermione’s chagrin – to Quality Quidditch Supplies. 

 

When they arrived, Ron nearly pushed his freckled face against completely the glass, taking in the newest model of the **_Nimbus_** , his big palms and long fingers pressed firmly against the store window, taking it all in. His eyes then moved from the new **_Nimbus_** to the paper that laid on the side of the window, displaying from what Harry could see ever-changing numbers.

 

Fred and George from their spot near Hermione teased their brother. The twins spoke in their usual manner, finishing each other’s sentences as if of one mind they were. 

 

“Calm down, little brother-,”

 

“-We wouldn’t want you to-.”

 

“-Dirty the glass, Ronny.”

 

Ron huffed in response but didn’t move his eyes from the ever-moving newspaper clippings that displayed the Quidditch scores of the entire European League. Harry stepped closer to sneak a few glances and since he still didn’t recognize some of the teams he wasn’t nearly as invested and decided to pay attention to Hermione and the twins who seemed to be talking about Hermione’s trips around Diagon Alley with her parents.

 

“We actually got everything pretty quickly, but we **_still_** don’t have the DADA’s books. It didn’t come in the list.”

 

Fred and George swung their arms around Hermione, each drawing her close to them, squashing her between them.

 

“Well, my dear-,”

 

“-Hermione ‘Know-It-All’ Granger-,”

 

Hermione managed to interject, “Not my actual middle name, but go on.” But the twins ignored her.

 

“We were hoping-,”

 

“-That that would mean-,”

 

“-That we **_wouldn’t_** have-,”

 

“-A new professor.”

 

“Well, we **_are_** getting a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” Hermione said, emphasising her words as if speaking with two especially thick children.

 

Fred and George moaned aloud at Hermione’s seemingly world-shattering revelation.

 

“And here I was-,”

 

“- Hoping that we wouldn’t-,”

 

“- Have to have another DADA lesson. Those were just-,”

 

“- The worst.”

 

Ron, without taking his sky-blue eyes from the newspapers in display, simply said, “History.”

 

The twins exchanged wide-looks and proceeded to nod rather too-enthusiastically.

 

“Right you-,”

 

“- Are, little brother.”

 

Then in unison, “We stand corrected.”

 

Harry and Hermione exchanged amused looks over the sibling squabbling and then smiled slightly when they saw Fred and George pushing and nudging their little brother when they caught him rolling his eyes at their antics. They stood there talking while Ron rarely took his eyes off the broom and added one-syllable answers to the conversation.  

 

A short while after, Mister and Mrs. Weasley arrived near them with a grinning Ginny who was happily holding out a wand. With a gesture, Mister Weasley called the four of them again to the entrance of Flourish and Blotts.

 

As they walked to meet the rest of the Weasley family he heard Ron whisper next to him, “Gilderoy Lockhart is signing books at the bookstore. That’s why we got our shopping done so late this year, so Mum and Gin could see their favorite writer.” Harry felt more than saw Ron rolling his eyes, “This is going to be torture, mate, but it’ll make Mum happy.”

 

Harry nodded quietly and made sure to at least try and show some interest in the author, if only not to upset Mrs. Weasley.

 

When they arrived at the bookstore Harry was surprised to see that it was packed to the brim, he wasn’t sure how they’d get in when Hermione rushed forward through the crowd practically dragging everyone with her to where her parents had apparently saved them a spot. It was near the front, too.

 

As the show started, and the lights in the bookstore dimmed, and a man dressed in the most pompous purple suit Harry had ever seen in his life – complete with a ruffled-tie-thing that Harry couldn’t even imagine what it was called – the crowd roared in approval much to Harry’s chagrin who felt like he’d leave the store half-deaf.

 

The golden-haired, blue-eyed man that was clearly the famous author Harry had never heard about, exhibited a charming smile showcasing his shining, perfectly straight teeth to the delight of the multitude of people crammed in the tiny store.

 

“Now, now,” the crowd quieted as the melodic voice of the man sounded around the store, “As I’m sure you know I am Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League; and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award.” Harry nearly gagged at the self-adulation, “Now, I’m thinking we start with some questions from the press and then move towards a more one-on-one contact. What do you think?”

 

Harry winced again as the crowd roared, once again delighted by the man’s showmanship. _Merlin’s beard, his voice is getting more aggravating by the_ **second.** _Bloody hell, Ron was right. This_ **is** _torture._

 

This little show of ego continued on for a while much to Harry’s annoyance, the questions led the wavy-haired man to brag about near-impossible adventures and the crowd just ate it up. Harry rolled his eyes at the display but made the effort to pay attention if only to please Mrs. Weasley, but then just as he was about to nearly keel over in utter tedium, a question coming from a report on site awakened his interest.  

 

“Are you the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?”

 

The crowd gasped and vibrated at the question delighted by the prospect. For his part, Harry looked bewildered and raged inside his head, _What? Oh, Merlin, no. Hell no. Please, God, no._ When he turned to his side to look at Ron, he noticed that his friend’s freckled face was twisted in horror that matched his. They exchanged a look and turned to look at Hermione who, to their surprise, looked as enthralled as the rest of the crowd. 

 

“Alas,” the grating voice of Gilderoy Lockhart sounded once more in the uproarious bookshop, “I wish I could say that I am to be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but I’m afraid that regrettably, that isn’t the case.”

 

 _Thank Merlin for small favours._ Harry’s thoughts seemed to contradict the whole store, as most people around him booed at Lockhart’s denial. Even Hermione - _Hermione!_ – looked disheartened by it.

 

Fortunately, his thoughts were echoed by some people in the room not dazzled by Lockhart’s, admittedly charming, smile. There were **_very_** few people, though; mainly himself, most of the other male students that had been dragged into this by their mothers, fathers who looked ready to jump out of the window, and two women holding hands and looking bemused by the whole spectacle while their son – Harry guessed by the way the young boy was holding on to the women – stared at Lockhart with stars in his eyes.

 

“Now, now,” Lockhart spoke, his voice clearly enhanced by magic that echoed through the whole store, “I’m afraid that this is the end, my friends. I truly do need to go.”

 

The boo-ing and the near-ear-splitting whining that came from the people crammed in the bookstore was almost enough to partially deafen Harry. But Lockhart seemed to revel in it, his golden locks swaying as he laughed, delighted by the people’s need to continue with his little autograph session. The crowd lost their mind when he smiled at them.

 

“Well, I’m very sorry, but-…” Lockhart’s blue eyes, for the first time since his whole charade began settled on Harry, and much to his horror seemed to recognize him, “-… by Merlin, it’s Harry Potter.”

 

“Oh, bloody hell, Harry, you’re in for it now.” Ron muttered beside him and Harry couldn’t help but agree.

 

Lockhart quickly made a move to grab him and before Harry could escape his grip, Mrs. Weasley quickly, and almost aggressively – most unlike her usual soft manner towards him – pushed him forwards into the arms of the pompous man.

 

“Oh, my, oh, my.” Lockhart’s shrill voice pounded in Harry’s skull, “Two of the most famous defenders of the people. Both of us the true warriors against the Dark!” The people crammed in the bookstore roared with approval, and Harry clenched his eyes at the flashes coming from the reporters expanded in throughout the store. Lockhart seemed to notice his face, and whispered through clenched teeth, “Smile, Harry.”

 

Harry fought to keep the frown and glare off his face and managed a smile that probably looked as fake as he felt, _Bloody hell, this is torture._ Lockhart, for his part, seemed to revel in it, raising both their hands above their heads to the cheering of the crowd. The golden-haired man then raised his hand to silence the people.

 

“It is a shame that Albus Dumbledore did not desire to have me at his school. Mister Harry Potter and I could form an incredible partnership! But as luck would have it, I guess we’ll have to settle for a little impromptu photoshoot.”

 

The people cheered as Lockhart made both himself and Harry pose for a couple hundred **_thousand_** photographs – _Or at least it_ **feels** _like that,_ Harry thought miserable through the umpteen flash of the camera. Lockhart milked his time with Harry for its fullest extent and only when the fans in the crowd were getting tired of being ignored in favour of Harry, did Lockhart let him go.

 

As soon as he got himself rid of Lockhart mostly spurred by Mrs. Weasley questions to the man, Harry escaped as far away from the self-absorbed man as he could. And when he arrived to where his friends were, he saw that Ron was no longer laughing and instead stood next to his father, glaring up at Lucius Malfoy.

 

“I’ll get you, Lucius. I swear to every God that I will.” Mister Weasley spoke through gritted teeth at the elder Malfoy.

 

Lucius merely smirked and limited himself to lifting Ginny’s book from her bag. The book that Harry had heard Mrs. and Mr. Weasley talk about how it was an extra expense that, while they wouldn’t regret buying, would dig into their savings. Harry felt a surge of anger rise within him. With barely a thought for what he was doing he put himself in between Ginny and elder Malfoy.

 

“I think you want to put that back.” Harry tried to put some power behind his voice, the way he had heard McGonagall do all of last year, but when Lucius only rose his eyebrow unimpressed by Harry’s performance, he figured that he wasn’t as convincing as he wanted to be.

 

“Ah, the famous Harry Potter.” Lucius spoke, and Harry could almost feel the slime coming off of the blond man’s words, “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

 

Harry narrowed his eyes, “I’m **_sure_** , Mister Malfoy.”

 

“It’s **_Lord_** Malfoy, Potter. If you’re going to address my father, do it right.”

 

A voice coming from upstairs called Harry’s attention to his right. And as Draco arrived, Harry shifted his emerald gaze from Lucius Malfoy to look at his silver-and-green rival. And though he was vaguely aware of Lucius putting Ginny’s book back in her bag, his focus was now solely on Draco, dressed Harry could now see, not with his school robes, but with a perfectly fitted black suit covered by dark green wizard robes in an ostentatious display of wealth.  Harry could barely resist the urge to roll his eyes at the wealthy boy.

 

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

 

Draco smirked, “Now, now, Potter… You don’t want to get in my way this year. I’ll have an… advantage, let’s call it that… while we’re at Hogwarts.” Draco sneered down at him, “You better watch yourself.”

 

“Yeah?” Harry challenged Draco’s threat, but the Slytherin only smirked.

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Harry narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Draco, and through the corner of his eye saw Mister Weasley do the same to Mister – _Lord_ , he thought to himself dryly – Malfoy, “What are you on about?”

 

Draco just smirked and in lieu of answer just gave an undescriptive, “Ah, Potter.” Malfoy’s wistful tone grated on Harry’s ears – _And really,_ Harry thought, _what twelve-year-old talks like this?_ – and his greyish blue eyes seemed to twinkle under whatever thought was running through his blond-haired head, “This year is going to be so **_much_** fun!”

 

Draco gave no more detail and merely turned to leave, swiveling as he did so, making his dark green cloak do a perfect arch in unison with his movement. Harry watched with disbelieving eyes the display that Draco put on and had only one thought as he saw Draco reunite with his father, _Bloody hell, what a twat._ Harry turned back to the Weasley family in time to see Ron pull a face at Draco’s retreating back, and Fred and George do an – even more – embellished caricature of the absurdly obnoxious move.

 

After breaking up the escalated fistfight between Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy that had started while Harry hadn’t been looking, the Weasley Family stayed a little while longer at Diagon Alley, now with the added bonus of not running into **_any_** Malfoys. They spent a couple more hours with the Grangers before Hermione said goodbye to her parents and came with Harry and the Weasleys back to the Burrow to spend the last day of Summer vacation with them.

 

The dinner was a lively affair, oh-so-different from the stiff and cold dinners he had with the Dursleys. Talk flowed, and jokes were traded, food passed from plate to plate and Harry was involved for the first time in his life in the warm embrace of a loving family. He heard Fred and George’s ideas for pranks while Mrs. Weasley huffed fondly in the background, he heard Mr. Weasley lovingly appeasing Ginny’s fears over being away from the family, he heard Hermione and Ron bicker amongst themselves and he heard Percy rapidly turning the pages of his books trying to absorb as much as possible before the beginning of the term.

 

It felt like home. In a way not even Hogwarts could compare, no matter how much he loved that school.

 

And later, as Harry settled into sheets, tucked warm and a belly full, he let out a contented sigh. Tomorrow he would go to King’s Cross, pass through the platform 9 and ¾, and enjoy a quiet ride with Ron, Hermione and maybe some friends from last year that Harry was eager to see again. Harry turned and snuggled deep into the bed and had one final thought before sleep took him into its satisfyingly restful embrace. _Nothing else odd is happening this year. Just studying, Quidditch, friends and nothing more._

 

Oh, if only could be that easy. Because, predictably, the universe limited itself to laughing in the face of such a wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this longer than I thought, but much shorter than the original first chapter that would have encompassed more or less the first 5 chapters... So, yeah, I can't write small.  
> Anyways, any feedback is appreciated, so please, review :D!  
> BTW! My Tumblr is RiddleRedCoats, so if you want to ask questions or anything I'm always glad to do so!


	3. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall have a different reaction to the Defence Against the Dark Art's professor.

Albus Dumbledore sighed as he sat back in the high chair of his office, the hard pace he had set from himself for the past few weeks finally catching up with him. The elderly man patted his long beard, which was tucked into a classic orange set of wizard robes, pondering the result of all the hard work he had done these past few weeks.

 

He had been busy. Now that he knew that Tom was really alive – and had **_proof_** of it – he had started gathering allies all over the world, calling upon every one that expressed the desire to fight. He had also been in contact with friends of old who, after the War, had left the country in hopes of escaping the memories of the worst of times. As a result, in a couple of week’s time, the Department of Law Enforcement would be back to full force with a couple of veteran faces to boot, and soon enough, the newest generation of Aurors could start preparing itself for the oncoming war.

 

Now all he needed to figure out was how in the hell had Tom survived all these years, without a body and seemingly as a bodiless spirit. _Which of the rituals extended his life beyond the natural? And how can I stop it from happening again?_ Albus cursed inside his head, _this whole thing is a mess._ _By all accounts, he should be unable to function but here he is…_   

 

A familiar shrill cry interrupted his thoughts. _Fawkes_ … Albus heard more than saw the approaching phoenix that was his familiar. The red and golden fantastical animal flew in from the balcony to the side of his office and down, down to his desk. The bird weighed down by a parcel of stacked newspapers – both national and international – settled on his desk with an indignant cry.

 

Albus smiled, “I’m sorry, old friend,” Albus stroked Fawkes’ top feathers, making sure to rub it the way he liked it, “I know you hate being my carrier owl.” The cocky phoenix merely limited itself to a rather nasty glare that Albus chuckled at, “Now, now, up to your perch.”

 

The bird – which was nearing the end of this current lifecycle – let out a little content cry before rubbing his head against Albus’ hand one final time before flying over to settle on his little perch next to the window in the upper floor.

 

Once he was sure that Fawkes settled in, Albus dug into the few dozen newspapers that his familiar had brought. The first one was perhaps unorthodox; after all, it was a German newspaper that limited itself to be the newsletter from the students at Durmstrang.

 

The newspaper which read: **_‘Heimkehr in Durmstrang! Berühmte alumni und eltern kehren zur schukstartparty zurück.‘_** , didn’t really tempt Albus. After all, Durmstrang having an exclusive glamourous party for the incoming school year – complete with their famous students making an appearance as well as famous students ‘parents – hardly counted as news in his opinion.

 

Albus quickly passed through all the Germanic newspapers, reading headlines but only skimming most of them. It had been a habit he had created when Grindelwald – _Gellert…_ A pang in his heart that would never truly go away spread momentarily throughout his body, seizing him completely and impairing his ability to think much like the dark wizard had done to his system with his mere presence – had first risen to power. He had continued the habit, making sure to keep a close eye on his… friend’s… former school and its proclivities for the Dark Arts.

 

Thankfully and before he could truly start dwelling on Gellert and their complicated, tenuous, dark history a knock startled him out of his musings. Albus straightened himself up on the chair and made sure to hide most of the newspapers, not that there was anything wrong with what he was doing, but if Minerva – because he just **_knew_** that it was Minerva knocking – saw it… She, who knew most of his whole history, would start making assumptions and he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself.  

 

As soon as he found the current state of his desk acceptable he cleared his throat and called, “Come in, Minerva.”

 

The brunette woman who was only now at the age of 57, finally gaining her full streak of greying hair, entered the room, dressed in the traditional attire of witches all over the world, long robs of emerald colour, accentuated by the pointed green hat and a bauble around her neck that Albus knew to be the only visible reminder that Minerva wore of her Muggle father. She looked ready to welcome the First-Year students that would arrive later that evening, the Gryffindor Head as always well-prepared well in advance.

 

Minerva strode forward.  

 

“You do know Bellatrix isn’t here yet?” Minerva hmphed in lieu of a greeting, “how irresponsible… The children get here today.”

 

Minerva had been, for the most part of the Summer, a little too passive-aggressive towards his decision to hire Bellatrix. So much so that she had started suggesting other professors at every chance she got; from Amelia Bones – who was perfectly well suited for her current job – to Augusta Longbottom – who after hearing Minerva’s suggestion had laughed in her face. _Gods,_ Albus thought, amused, _she even suggested Gilderoy Lockhart._ It had been at that point that Minerva, startled by her own desperate suggestion to hire a man as unqualified as Lockhart, started to mellow out a bit in regard to his decision to hire Bellatrix.  

 

“I’m sure she has a good reason,” Albus tried to placate, “And I’m sure she’ll arrive more than prepared to start the term right away.”

 

Minerva’s muffed ‘umph’ told Albus that she thought otherwise and when she spoke there was hint disapproval in her voice, “She didn’t even have the students bring any books! How does she think she can teach.”

 

“You should know better, Minerva. Bellatrix always has a plan.”

 

Minerva winced, probably thinking of many of Bellatrix’ convoluted plans during the First War that had, as the conflict with the Death Eaters grew and grew, attracted many to her side of the Order. So much so that by the end of 1979, Sirius Back, James Potter and Frank Longbottom as well as the Prewett twins frequently joined her in her unorthodox, but effective, schemes.

 

Minerva shook her head ridding herself of the memories, “Speaking of ‘Black’, the other professors are wondering how to address her after her little stint during the last ministry ball where I’m sure you remember, she insisted people call her Lady Black,” Minerva narrowed her eyes, “So… **_Do_** we have to call her ‘Lady Black’?,” Minerva dryly asked, annoyance in her every motion, “Because if we do, I swear to all the Gods above and below, Albus, I **_will_** do something rash and you’ll have no one but yourself to blame.”

 

The Headmaster nodded, his blue eyes a little wide with a little fear at what his protégé’s incredible mind could conjure up to make his life in the castle a living hell. He had no doubt that she’d be able to do it. He cleared his throat before looking into Minerva’s sea-green eyes, “Minerva, of course, you won’t have to call her ‘Lady Black’,” he tried to placate his friend, although he hoped that every word that came out of his mouth would be true and that Bellatrix would not make a liar out of him.

 

“Mmph… We’ll see.” Minerva was sceptical, and narrowed her eyes at him, “Now, **_unlike_** some, I’m going to go through the final preparations **_before_** the students arrive.”

 

Minerva rose from her seat and with one last sceptical look at Albus left the office. Albus sighed, both exasperated and amused at what the encounter that these two women would have would come down to. Albus, after a single a morosely look at the newspaper tucked under his desk, rose from his seat leaving the newspapers behind to comb through his personal library has he had done all summer, trying to find whatever could have kept Tom alive all these years.    

 

As he passed the tome of ‘ _Caliginous Acts of Everlasting Malice_ ’ by Amon Amur, a loud **_pop_** echoed in even in the density of his office. Albus chuckled under his breath, _Ah, always having to make an entrance, don’t we, Miss Black?_ While Bellatrix had more than enough skill and power to make herself **_apparate_** soundlessly, she always chose not to do so and in fact her loud **_pop_** s had, during the First War, been her calling sign – the spectacle being half of her battle style, much to the annoyance of her comrades and the panic of most fighters on the other side.

 

He turned from the inside of his office to the source of the sound and had to struggle to maintain the smile. _This is not what I expected._

 

When he had first approached Bellatrix about the job, they had talked at length about what it would entail, Bellatrix’ prowess with teaching, and just how much of the Dark Arts she’d be able to teach – _Very, very little,_ Albus had insisted – still, after she had agreed to his terms, they’d parted on the agreement that she’d be at Hogwarts for the sorting ceremony ready to start the job.

 

Well, right now she didn’t look ready to start a job. She looked like she was going to a Ball at Buckingham Palace to meet the bloody Queen.  

 

Black dress of a velvet quality covered the expanse of her creamy white skin, giving her already pale complexion more of a contrast against the deep black of her dress. High collar of black material stopping only at her ears, hugging her long neck and giving away to a modest cleavage. Long tight sleeves stopping at her wrist adorned by golden cuff bracelets. A tight bodice around her well-maintained figure was adorned by golden patterns, that gave away to the skirts of her dress widening and falling loosely behind her, leaving a small trail of fabric behind her.  

 

Her hair, ebony black, instead of its usual loose style was pinned up atop her head, carefully having been put in a large bun and carefully decorated with tiny golden flecks. Her makeup was heavy and unsubtle, accentuating her aristocratic features with her grey eyes taking the heavy burnt of the makeup being lined with deep black, and her lips painted a patented dark.

 

She looked like the incarnation of every stereotype of a Lady of an Ancient House. Well, the stereotype of the Lady of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, known worldwide by its unmatched seal and heraldry of Gold and Black. _Visions of Black and Gold set the World alight, for that is the Black Family’s birth right._ The short poem, first immortalized by a long-suffering rival of the Noble family, was etched onto the memory of those long in the thrall of the machinations of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and crossed Albus’ mind, unbidden, when he saw the woman before him.

 

Before he could greet her, the consummate Lady Black spoke first.

 

“Headmaster.” Her cool voice sounded around the room, although Albus knew that tone to be completely false, he had seen her scream and yell and let loose on the battle field. The pondered tone, like everything else about the Black family, was nothing but a mask to hide their true nature.

 

To Albus, the Black family, despite centuries of inbreeding and dedication to the Dark Arts, had always had their… inherited flaws, on the inside. Insanity, paranoia, and bloodlust were among the illnesses that ran amuck in their bloodline, but on the outside, Albus struggled to find a single flaw. Bellatrix was no different; there was an underlining sharp vicious streak that – when provoked – scared even Albus but at the same time Bellatrix had been one of the most desirable women in the country, for her beauty and her status and – even if men usually ignored that part – her brilliance.

 

“My dear.” Albus smiled at the woman and slightly bowed his head in greeting with Bellatrix repeating the solemn gesture afterward. He raised his head to look her in the eyes, “Welcome home, child.”

 

“Albus.” He could see her dark painted lips curving slightly at him and was left surprised. Bellatrix had aligned herself with the Order out of necessity, not sentiment, and she had none to lose for him, but she smiled nonetheless. She smiled and extended her left hand, the one where her signet ring was not, to shake his.

 

With his eyebrows struggling to rise in surprise, he approached the woman and shook her hand, feeling in his wrinkled hands, three disfigured fingers tightly squeezing his.

 

Bellatrix had been relatively lucky during the First War; many fighters had been crippled almost beyond recovery – his friend Alastor Moody crossed his mind, though Alastor had always been a fighter – but she had come out relatively unscathed, physically at least.

 

There was a barely visible tiny scar on her right eyebrow that she kept hidden with make-up and had Albus not known about it before would be hard pressed to detect it. Albus could feel the three fingers of Bellatrix’ hand that had to be desensitized from when a curse had eaten away half their flesh which after applying a very, **_very_**  carefully crafted potion had been grown back, though a little jagged. But worse still, had been the time that she been fighting a Death Eater and he had thrown a **Confrigo** right at her neck, cutting and burning her flesh. It had been messy work to fix Bellatrix up, Albus himself had to be kept out of the room while Alice Longbottom worked her magic on keeping Bellatrix alive but for her troubles Bellatrix had still been left with a thin but long and ugly scar – which she always kept hidden – that ran from her neck down to her heart.

 

Now, that scar was covered by the high collar of her velvet dress and the heavy necklace that covered every expanse of her neck, creating a sort of collar of gold around her neck adorned by black diamonds. Albus was barely able to hide his wince at the display of wealth so unlike what most other modest professors wore at the school.

 

“I’m not usually one to comment on professors’ clothing, my dear, and you’ll forgive me if I say-…,” his carefully crafted statement was interrupted by Bellatrix’ rather un-lady-like snort.

 

“Stop right there, Albus. You’ll embarrass yourself. I have no intention of dressing like **_this_** …,” with a gesture towards herself, she pointed to her clothing, and with a dry tone explained her extravagant apparel, “… during my tenure here. I just came from the opening ceremony at Durmstrang and you know they require a little more… **_flare_** for their beginning of the term party.”

 

Albus almost sighed in relief. Bellatrix’ hyper Pureblood background was going to be a struggle to integrate with their more muggle-oriented Professors either way, but if Bellatrix had insisted on parading around like the Lady of one of the oldest and most noble houses in Europe – _Which is within her rights_ , Albus reluctantly had to admit – then his job of making the transition as seamless as possible would be over before it had truly begun. 

 

Still, what was more interesting than her attire was the reason it was donned in the first place. _What exactly,_ Albus wondered, _was Bellatrix doing at Durmstrang?_

 

Bellatrix Black’s personal life had been very public since the day she was born, her being the Black family’s first heir to the newest generation had engineered an insatiable curiosity in the public that her family had been happy to satisfy. Then, during the last two years of the First War and subsequent years after, she started shrouding herself in mystery. And though she had fought nearly every battle with the Order against the Death Eaters and then after the War had made the necessary appearances at the Ministry, very little was known of her personal life after a certain point. Her family had not helped matters by being reluctant to divulge any details of her life to the discontentment of the public at large. Even Albus himself, though not especially prone to gossip, had been curious as well.

 

And now, another piece to add to the odd puzzle: invitations to Durmstrang’s elite and **_very_** private parties. Albus filled that little tidbit of information for later, for when he’d have time to dwell on it. For now, he had the job of Headmaster to fulfil.

 

“Now, do you have any other questions?”

 

“Not really. No.” Bellatrix bit her lip as she stared off into the distance, deep in thought, the gesture familiar to Albus who had seen her do it enough times during her school years and Order meetings, “But I do have one demand.”

 

Albus fought to keep the exasperated smile off his lips,  _Of course, you do. You wouldn’t be a Black without a meter-long list of demands,_ “Go on, my dear.”

 

“The summer vacations are mine,” her grey eyes were resolute when she spoke, and Albus had the feeling that this would be thing that would make or break Bellatrix’ permanent stay, “I do not wish to spend another minute here as the other professors do. I’ll prepare at home, of course, but the Summer is mine.”

 

Albus nodded, that wasn’t too bad, “Of course, that can be arranged.” Albus then smiled at her, “Now, before you settle in, you should talk to Minerva,” Albus explained calmly, though he knew that he was in for a world of trouble trying to bring these two dedicated, brilliant women together. He saw the woman nod at him and turn, her velvet black skirts swishing about her. With a wince at the expensive gown, Albus couldn’t help but add, “but, perhaps a change in attire is in order, Professor Black.”

 

Bellatrix looked to him wide-eyed, her near impervious mask slipping slightly, but she recovered quickly only to smirk at him, “That is going to take a while to get used to… ‘Professor Black’,” Her grey eyes then shone with a hint of mischievousness so closely resembling Sirius that Dumbledore felt a pang on his chest at being reminded of the imprisoned Black, “I’ll see you at dinner, Headmaster.”

 

Bellatrix turned to leave, her velvet black skirts swaying with the movement and the golden pattern of the bodice glinting against the orange, dying light of the dusk Sun. Albus winced again at the ostentatious display the wealthy dress gave off and couldn’t help but needle again, “The dress, Professor.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Bellatrix waved the request and left the room, her luggage closely following her.

 

Albus sighed, exasperated, and leaned back in his chair as he let his head fall to the palm of his hand. He had forgotten about the arrogance of the Blacks, and the abject need they seemed to have to cause as much trouble as possible, not to mention their deep inability to not become the centre of attention.

 

Now, to be fair, some Blacks had escaped the curse of their ancestor’s vicious temperament… Unfortunately, Bellatrix was a perfect inheritor of hundreds of years of those family traits and so ingrained they were in her, that she always subconsciously exhibited them in her every action. _Gods, I am in for a world of trouble,_ with one last thought for the woman who had just left, Albus wished, _I hope she at least changes her dress or Minerva will never let me hear the end of it._

 

Albus reached over the desk and took a sherbet lemon from the copper bowl constantly full of his preferred candy, no matter how much he dug into his supply and popped one into his mouth to suck on the sugary sweet treat. As the savor settled on his tongue, Albus had one last thought before turning to the Ministry papers in front of him. _Gods, please, let this be a normal year._    

 

In the distance, the distinctive sound of a  ** _Ford Anglia_**  could be heard sailing through the sky.

* * *

 Minerva McGonagall, who had been perfectly at ease in her office before someone knocked on the door, could barely restrain herself from marching to Albus’ office and let out a big ‘I told you so’ speech right to his face. As it was, Minerva smiled politely, though coldly, as the personification of Pureblood Elite walked through the threshold of her door.

 

“Nice dress.” Minerva drawled, seeing the expensive velvet black dress adorned with what seemed to be actual solid gold designs. _Of course,_ Minerva raged, _Of bloody course._

 

“Thank you,” Bellatrix smirked.

 

“I bet it cost you a pretty Galleon.” 

 

“Several, actually.” Bellatrix corrected with a fake rosy tone that grated on Minerva’s ears. The black-haired woman continued with that cheerful tone that remained completely fake, “Why, in fact, it cost more than you would be paying me for the whole school **_year_**.”

 

Minerva’s dark eyebrows rose with each word that Bellatrix uttered, though it had little to do with the price of the dress and more with the latter part of her statement, “…’What we **_would_ **be paying you?’…” Minerva seized on that particular titbit, and could almost taste the sarcasm in her own voice, “Why, is our salary inadequate in some way,  ** _Lady Black_**? There are other occupations for you, I could easily provide a letter of recommendation if you seek alternative employment.”

 

“I refused it, actually.”

 

“The job?” the hopeful, sarcastic quip didn’t escape Bellatrix as she quickly responded in kind.

 

“I would not dare deprive you of my company, Minerva.” Minerva hmph-ed disappointedly, much to Bellatrix amusement. “I meant, that I refused the salary.”

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

“I already give **_ungodly_** amounts of money to this school, I’d be essentially paying my own salary. Like I do of every professor in the roster. Plus some of the amenities, like the new telescope for Astronomy and the few dozen ancient library books that have been on permanent ‘borrowed’ status for the last couple of decades.”   

 

“Yes, yes, yes. You’re very rich. I get it!” Minerva huffed, exasperated by Bellatrix purposefully challenging attitude. She should have known that the woman would never do anything without having something to brag about. With a sigh, Minerva tried to be the bigger person, “Well, Bella, despite your lack of respect for the rules and utter entitlement over the traditions of this school, I hope that when the students arrive you behave yourself to the best of your abilities.”

 

Minerva was surprised when the room visibly cooled as Bellatrix’ temper seemed to rise. Minerva could actually feel herself start shivering, her already warm robes doing nothing to protect her from the artificially created cold that seemed to penetrate her skin and settle right on her bones. Looking at Bellatrix, Minerva was startled to find that it seemed more like accidental magic than actual premeditated artifice. 

 

“ ** _Don’t_** call me ‘Bella’.” Bellatrix’ eyes seemed to match the sudden temperature, appearing cold slabs of steel instead of the mischievous cloudy grey.

 

Minerva could feel every molecule in her body telling her not to press Bellatrix any further. But Godsdamn it, she was a Gryffindor for a reason.

 

“Now, now, **_Bella_** , I’m sure that as colleagues we can stand to be a little more informal.”

 

Minerva could be aggravating too when she wished to be petty if someone got under her skin deep enough like Bellatrix was doing right now. _Like she always has,_ a preppy little voice echoed through Minerva’s mind, which she promptly ignored.

 

“Sure, **_Minnie_**.”

 

Minerva gasped at the nickname. It was something a few of her friends had come up with when one time during their seventh year they had sneaked out of Hogwarts to go see a Muggle movie in London starring the now famous Mickey and Minnie Mouse. It was a deeply buried memory, and for Bellatrix to find it, using Legilimency without Minerva noticing, spoke of how much the Black witch had learned in the past decade.

 

Minerva looked at Bellatrix, her sea-green eyes narrowing in distaste at Bellatrix’ invasion of her privacy, but Bellatrix limited herself to offering her a deal.

 

“You don’t call me ‘Bella’, and we never speak of it again.”

 

Minerva scoffed, “Deal.”

 

An awkward silence settled around them after that. Bellatrix still standing near the door and Minerva sitting in chair framed by the window behind her that allowed a glimpse to the Whomping Willow that laid outside, the countryside of the Hogwarts grounds encompassed in a cloudless sky and under a rising full moon.

 

With a sigh, Minerva murmured, “May I ask a question?” Bellatrix looked a little stunned at Minerva’s request but nodded either way, with a sigh Minerva continued, “You’ve barely spent time in England this past decade, you come back for a couple a weeks every season to partake in the political high of the year and then go back to where ever you spent the rest of the time. So, why did you accept this job? As you’ve mentioned you have no need for money.”

 

Bellatrix tensed even further, her slender figure fidgeting with the question. The Black witch licked her lips and bit her tongue and Minerva watched the woman’s eyes almost water under the scrutiny of such a simple question. Whatever had made Bellatrix take this job had clearly been something of monumental pull to bring her back.

 

“He… He’s back.” Bellatrix near stumbled over her words though her grey eyes bore directly into Minerva’s. Bellatrix’ voice was quiet but steady as she continued, “Even if he’s not here now, it’s only a matter of time. Someday, soon, he’ll be back for good, and we need to be ready.”

 

Minerva hummed in agreement. After all, she knew some of the backstories of Bellatrix and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Well, all Minerva knew was that there was history there, and not much else. But what she was certain of, was that Bellatrix’ commitment to fighting **_him_** had always been clear and genuine even if her motivations were not. What worried Minerva, was that Bellatrix’ morals and ideals were very much aligned with the darker side of this stand-still-war, and the thought of her moulding the next generation of wizards didn’t settle well with the Gryffindor Head.

 

Minerva, almost touched by Bellatrix vulnerability, gave the new professor a few moments to collect herself. After what she deemed enough time, Minerva spoke.

 

“I’ll be honest with you, Bellatrix.” Minerva’s voice was strict, and the Gryffindor Head watched with a sense of satisfaction as Bellatrix unconsciously stood straighter, much like she had done when she’d been a young girl and Minerva called her to attention during her class.

 

Still, the girl – because, as all of her students, Bellatrix would never stop being a girl in her eyes – was a Slytherin and before Minerva could elaborate on her self-proclaimed honesty, Bellatrix **_just_** **_had_** to interrupt with a witty, sarcastic comment. Naturally.

 

“Does this mean you haven’t always been honest with me, Minerva?” Bellatrix smirked, and Minerva had to contain herself not to wipe it off her face. “Oh, goody.”

 

“Your… education, Bellatrix, excluding Hogwarts is very… unorthodox.” Minerva tried to measure her words, but realized that it would be impossible, “You’re rash, brash and with a vicious temper that is most unqualified to teach at **_any_** school, much less **_this_** school. I’ve made my objections to you being here very clear. You’re dangerous, reckless, and your plans during the First War almost got an entire generation of wizards killed.”

 

Minerva furiously unburdened all her grievances, knowing that after this her conscious would be clean. But of course, instead of taking her complaints seriously, Bellatrix limited herself to make fun. Minerva watched incensed as the other woman chuckled amusedly.

 

“Oh come on, I’m not **_that_** bad!”

 

“My **_point_** is,” Minerva continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, “you’re hardly a level-headed person, Bellatrix!” Minerva near rolled her eyes when she heard Bellatrix gasp. _These Blacks are such drama queens…,_ “Please, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. And, to be perfectly honest, I think that-… Bellatrix?”

 

Minerva called as she noticed that her new colleague was not paying any attention to what she was saying. In fact, the black-haired woman seemed almost enthralled by something that laid outside, as the woman’s grey-eyes couldn’t seem to part from the window that stood behind Minerva.

 

“Is that-…” Bellatrix actually faltered over her words as her brain struggled to process what her eyes were seeing. “Is that a **_flying car_**?!”

 

Minerva took in the woman’s wide grey eyes and decided that maybe – **_just_** maybe – the woman wasn’t messing with her. With a quick turn, Minerva felt her mouth drop open when she watched through the window in her office a horrid blue car flying straight into the open – but severely unwelcome – arms of the Whomping Willow.

 

The two professors watched with a matching wince as the sentient tree warped its large, brown branches around the metal death-trap and then proceeded to shake it within an inch of its increasingly short life. Minerva watched with a green tinge to her face as the car turned and turned and turned and turned. And the people inside with it.

 

“You know,” Bellatrix drawled as she watched with an amused smirk the tree giving the car a few more whirls around, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say one of **_your_** students was responsible for this.”

 

Minerva bristled at her tone.

 

“ ** _My_** students are well-behaved and would never-…”

 

Whatever Minerva was going to say was cut off as they watched the abused car finally break free from the overwhelming grasp of the willow tree and shake itself off the ride it had been on. They watched with another wince as the sentient car seemed to spit out its occupants. The small forms being projected into the lawn startled both professors who had been expecting at least an older teen and not a couple of children. As the two kids stood up, Bellatrix focused her eyes on the figures, trying to determine their identity.

 

Then, as a flash of light illuminated the colour of one of the children’s scarf, Bellatrix could barely keep the laughter out of her voice. Bellatrix cleared her throat and then licked her lips before turning to the still-dazed Gryffindor Head. She bit her lip as a loud snigger almost forced itself out of her throat.

 

“…Isn’t that a Gryffindor scarf on that kid?”

 

“Oh, bloody hell!” Minerva complained and then rushed out of the room to the sound of the loud cackle of the newest Defence Against the Dark Arts’ professor.


	4. Meeting Bellatrix Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter sees his dream of a normal year fly out the window when he finds out who the new Defence professor against the Dark Arts truly is.
> 
> (that's actually a good summary of the fic in and of itself, lmao.  
> Also the entirety of canon of Harry Potter, lbr)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE ARE TWO CHAPTERS GUYS!

A rushing of steps filled the torch-lit, hallowed halls of the school as two small students – red and gold ties adorning their uniforms– were led by the scruff of their neck by the school’s caretaker into the office of – **_not_** their Head of House – but of the Head of their rival House.  

 

 _And who has a personal vendetta against me._ Harry thought miserably as Argus Filch pushed him none-to-gently into the dark, humid, hot room that dubbed both as Snape’s office and his Potions classroom. Harry’s amber coloured face twisted as the pongy stench of the ingredients that sat on the shelves burned through his nose. _Great. It’s even on his turf.  Why, oh, why did I have to listen to Ron._

 

Harry was despondent with his own thoughts. After all, Ron was his best mate and had done what he had thought was best. It just turns out that it had gone horribly wrong. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine when he thought of the vicious twists and turns he had made not even twenty minutes ago. _I am not sure I’ll ever be able to go on a rollercoaster,_ Harry thought; he had never been on one, but he figured that it might feel like what had just happened to him. Minus the mind-shattering terror that had coursed through his veins, of course.

 

Harry turned to look at his friend, all tall and gangly and suppressed a grimace at Ron’s terrified face. Still, despite the fear Harry could see in his trembling form, his freckled-faced friend stood as tall as he was able and with a determined look in his sky-blue eyes.

 

Before Harry could try and comfort Ron, Filch spoke, his voice gravelly and harsh.

 

“Wait here, brats. I’ll get Snape.”

 

The smile in Filch’s face told Harry that he knew how Snape would treat him and Ron. And the utter joy it brought him. _Arsehole._ Harry cursed the caretaker in his mind and knew that Ron was doing the same.

 

As soon as they found themselves alone, Ron broke the silence that had installed itself between them, “Well, mum is going to kill me.”

 

Harry had no defence for that. In fact, the whole sentence ran truer than anything he’d heard all day, “Yeah, mate. She is.”

 

Harry saw Ron twist his freckles features and shake his head, miserable about the whole ordeal. Harry managed a pat on his best friend’s back before the sound of the sure, familiar steps and a billowing cloak invaded the suddenly chilling room. Ron nearly trembled though Harry himself found that he had faced far worse at home.

 

“Of course it had to be the both of you.”  The – unfortunately – familiar and low drawl of the Head of the Slytherin House crept up on them and despite the fair warning of the so-called dungeon-bat’s arrival, Harry and Ron flinched out of surprise.

 

 _Git._ Harry couldn’t help but think as he saw Severus Snape’s tall shadow intimidate the whole atmosphere of the already imposing room. And when the professor came into view with his large, hooked nose and thin mouth twisted to form a firm scowl that marred his features which were framed by the shoulder-length greasy black hair, Harry felt proud that he had at the very least caused the potions professor a little headache. _All and any punishment will be worth it._

 

Snape, however, looked about ready to test the theory, and with a near poisonous tone spoke, “Do the both of you have  ** _any_** idea of the trouble you’ve caused? The Statute has been violated-…” With a dramatic twist, Snape flipped the newspaper that Harry saw had been on the desk this whole time. _So, he knew all along that we’d be here?,_ Harry paused listening as Snape continued dishing out a reprimand, _Was he really just waiting outside for a dramatic entrance? No, no… he couldn’t…_ Harry then thought, really thought, of all the Slytherins he knew. _All of them are drama queens… So yes, yes, he probably really was just waiting outside._

 

“Detention!” Snape’s sudden raised of voice, drew Harry’s attention back to him, “A month’s worth of it, too.” Snape’s glee was unmistakable as he found himself with Harry within his grasp.

 

 _No wonder I thought he was the one after the Stone last year, the man reeks of bad intentions._ Harry whined inside his head and suddenly he had the distinct feeling of being observed. With an almost paranoid look, but as discreet as he was able, Harry looked around the room to see from where this feeling originated. There **_was_** a glass full of eyes of newt that actually seemed to be moving but it didn’t ping anything for Harry. The feeling seemed more internal… Like someone was reading his thoughts. _Absurd!,_ Harry’s dazed mind insisted, _Mind reading? Impossible._ Harry nearly relaxed, but then again, he had just flown a flying car. _Shit._

 

Harry snapped to attention when Snape’s voice rose again.

 

“And, what’s more…” Before Snape could finish whatever punishment he was about to dish out the door at the far end of the room swung open, and although Harry couldn’t see who had entered, he could see the glee fade slightly from Snape’s dark eyes that whoever just entered set Harry immediately at ease, but he still didn’t dare to turn around to see who it was.

 

“Severus,” Harry relaxed even further when he heard the welcome voice of his Head of House. Minerva McGonagall was really the only person he wanted to hear from right now. The only one who seemed to be in agreement with Snape’s inherit deceitful stance, “What exactly are you doing with **_my_** students?” Harry had never been gladder in his life to be a Gryffindor under Minerva McGonagall’s tutelage.

 

"Minerva..." The way Snape said McGonagall's name set Harry's teeth on edge. It sounded disrespectful and provoking. Harry had to clench his fist not to lash out for he knew that if there was someone who didn't need defending was Minerva McGonagall.

 

"Severus, these are my students, and no matter how much they erred and how grave it was..." Professor McGonagall's sea-green eyes seemed to penetrate his own emerald, she looked with enough force to make both he and Ron flinch, "...They remain my responsibility to deal with. Therefore, Severus, I  _ **appreciate**_ ," McGonagall's tone did not sound appreciative, "the help, but I can take it from here." Minerva motioned towards them, calling them to her, “Come.”

 

McGonagall turned and walked out of the room and Ron and Harry were more than happy to follow her out, leaving Snape fuming in his office. The boys followed their professor out of the dungeons and put themselves on the path towards the Great Hall.

 

"What both of you did was incredibly irresponsible." McGonagall lectured as they passed through the lower levels of the Castle, "Taking a car to school, why would you do such a thing? Not only did you put yourselves in danger flying right into the arms of the Whomping Willow, but you caused material damage to London, cost Arthur's standing on the Ministry and _**broke**_ the Statute of Secrecy, our most sacred law." McGonagall turned abruptly, making the two boys nearly crash into her, "Well, do you have any good reason for this spectacle?"  

 

"I-uhmm... You see..."

 

" _ **Today**_ , Mister Weasley, I don't have all night."

 

 _"_ Actually," Harry dared to speak, "The platform 9 and 3/4 was malfunctioning... It didn't let us pass."

 

McGonagall's raised eyebrow told him she didn't believe them, "Uhm..." McGonagall sounded sceptical, "I've heard better excuses... But no matter, I don't have time for this. The fact remains that you must be punished." Harry and Ron winced, already expecting the worst, "100 points from Gryffindor, Misters Potter, and Weasley. And detention, with me, starting Friday. It'll go on indefinitely and until I decide you've learned your lesson." Harry and Ron nodded miserably, knowing they had been  _ **lucky**_ to simply be punished and not expelled altogether.  

 

McGonagall turned as resumed escorting them to the Great Hall.

 

 _"_ I do have to ask, though..." Ron started and ignored Harry's frenzied pleas to stop talking, "...How did you know what we did and that we crashed into that blood-" Ron stopped when McGonagall glared at him, "I mean, into that _**cursed**_ tree?" 

 

Minerva gave Ron one last warning look before answering, “As much as it pains me to admit, you’ll have to thank your new Defence Professor, if she hadn’t been in the room with me when you flew past my window, I would have never seen you two try to kill yourselves rather spectacularly.” Harry and Ron both felt like grinning and groaning at their impressive feat. Minerva however, quickly put a damper on their mood, “But fear not, I **_shall_** be informing your parents, Mister Weasley. And you, Mister Potter… Well, I’m sure detention with **_me_** will be enough to deter any further mischief coming from you…”

 

Harry closed his eyes. _I don’t know what’s worst Snape on a warpath or McGonagall in righteous anger._

 

They reached the entrance of the Great Hall and Harry, despite being miserably reminded of the punishment that awaited him and Ron, was against left in awe of the grandiose place. Still, as the door opened and McGonagall ushered them in to sit at their table while she welcomed the new students, not even the magnificent Hall could damper the thought of the second time in as many days that he would go to bed with his belly full. 

* * *

 “Where were you two?” Hermione asked as soon as they managed to fit into the seat she had saved for them, “The ceremony is about to start.”

 

Ron mumbled under his breath and simply crashed down on his seat and groaned loudly as he buried his head over his crossed arms. Hermione looked flabbergasted at her ginger-headed friend and merely turned towards Harry to quizzically look at him. Harry for his part, felt for Hermione’s need to know, but merely limited himself to wave away her inquiry with a long-suffering sigh and a meaningful look towards Ron, who finally looked up from his wallowing to utter a single, slurred, miserably spoken phrase.

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

 

His voice could not have sounded more defeated. Hermione gave Ron and him one last sceptical side-look before closing her book altogether and approaching them completely. As the doors to the Great Hall hinged open, and the First-Year students clamored in quietly whispering to themselves, Harry couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever been that small. It hadn't felt like that last year, but looking now, he could see truly just how much he had gone through in a single year. 

 

The sang the same horrible song from last and the sorting started with an 'Amaral, Michael" without any further ado. Hermione, of course, tried to get more information out of him and Ron.

 

"So where  _ **were**_ you two?"

 

"Yeah!" Came a voice from Harry's left, Dean Thomas, Harry was surprised to find he had changed a little from last year, he was taller and thinner, "Sean and I looked all over for you guys. Then, Neville was added to the party. And then Hermione, Patil and Lavander..." Dean grinned from ear to ear, "... You had the whole Second-Year looking for you, mates."

 

Harry nearly blushed to the root of his hair.  _It's good to be home,_ He thought warmly as he felt as welcomed as never before. Still, he did feel bad that his friends had waisted the train ride looking for him, "I'm sorry."

 

"Nah, mate," Sean waved away his concern, "We figgered that you got yourself into trouble, nah?"

 

Ron snorted, "You have no idea." 

 

The group chuckled, even when Hermione glared exasperatedly at them. Neville was then, quick to add, "As long as you're both here, it's fine."

 

"Yeah!" Lavender spoke from the other side of Ron, "As long as you tell us what happened, that is."

 

Harry and Ron exchanged looks before Harry cleared his throat and explained what happened. 

 

"The platform wouldn't let us through." Already sceptical eyebrows were rising, "So, we took Ron's dad's car and flew it to Hogwarts," Now mouths were dropping as Ron solemnly nodded beside him, "Snape caught us," sympathetic winces, "McGonagall saved us. We lost 100 points and have detention with no end in sight."

 

The group made no sound, the only thing Harry could hear was Fred and George's low sniggers and the McGonagall calling out the students to be sorted. Everyone was just starring at him and Ron. Everyone but Hermione who opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, trying to clearly limit her questions.

 

She seemed to have - painfully - settled for one, "What about the car?" She asked through gritted teeth.

 

"We crashed into the Whomping Willow, it threw us out and went into the forest." Harry had never heard Hermione whimper like that, it was as if it physically pained to not ask more questions as the sorting came to an end.

 

" _ **What**_?!" Came from Fred and George who were sitting a couple of seats away from them, who then spoke in unison, "Oh, Mum's gonna kill you, dung brains."

 

 "Yeah, tell me about it." Ron mumbled under his breath.

 

Then, a loud, “Weasley, Ginevra.”, broke the conversation

 

The sole, lone student left walked head high to the cheers of the Gryffindor table, her brothers – even the sullen Percy Weasley included – cheering the loudest. The little Weasley girl walked head high and sat in the stool. After about a minute with no decision form the hat, people started whispering, “She’s a Weasley, they belong in Gryffindor.”; “A Weasley? A hat-staller?”; “Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw?”; “ ** _Surely_** not Slytherin?”

 

For his part, Harry saw Ron clench his fist against the low murmurings in the room.

 

“Bloody gits,” Ron muttered, and Fred and George which were sitting but five seats away from Harry, Ron, and Hermione nodded in tandem. The blue eyes of Ginny’s brothers’ seemed to convey their displeasure at the gossip involving the room, “One bloody minute. Give her a chance.”

 

Harry couldn’t help but agree; one minute hardly counted as a hat-staller and it was unfair to put Ginny into a category simply because she was taking a **_little_** longer than usual. Still, from what Harry could gather there hadn’t been a Weasley outside Gryffindor since there was a record of such a thing, so the shock and surprise were hardly unwarranted from the easily impressed students.  

 

However, it wasn’t long until the hat shouted the very welcome, “GRYFFINDOR!”

 

The table clapped and cheered as the last student went to take her seat near the end of the table, on the other side of the Great Hall near the door and joined her brother – and Head Boy – Percy Wesley as the rest of the table celebrated. She sat down and looked at her books, looking quite disheartened by the whole spectacle her sorting had provided. Although soon enough, everyone forgot about the lone Weasley girl as with a wave of his hand and the same nonsensical speech of last year, Dumbledore opened the Welcoming Feast and the tables were soon full of delicious food.

 

“I wonder who the new professor is? I hope he’ll a good enough professor to justify ousting **_the_** Gilderoy Lockhart.” Hermione’s wistful tone didn’t really register with Harry, though he could note a sliver of the awe in her voice for some reason. More than that he had one piece of information she hadn’t.

 

“It’s a  ** _she_** _,_ Hermione. Ron and I heard McGonagall talk about her.” Harry informed his friends with a shrug, as he put a piece of chicken in his plate, “She’s already in the school, I don’t know why she isn’t here.”

 

“Hmm…” the black girl hummed under her breath, and in a low, near conspiratory voice whispered to Harry, “And Dumbledore keeps looking to the door behind the head table… As if he’s waiting for someone.”

 

As if summoned by Hermione’s words, the door behind the professors' table burst open and the clack-clack of high heels smoothing along the cold, stone floor echoed in the now silent Great Hall. Suddenly, they all saw an excessively dressed woman walk through the archway of the door. Black and gold, filled Harry’s vision as he seldom could take his eyes off of her. He hardly needed to look to see that everyone else was doing the same.

 

The black-haired woman merely seemed to smirk and limit herself to sitting on the head table, but not before whispering something to the Headmaster, right where professor Quirrell had sat last year. Well, that answered **_that_** question. She was the new Defence professor against the Dark Arts.

 

When Harry was finished gaping at the woman with the rest of the school, he felt… Well, he didn’t know what he felt, but his chest was tight, and his vision slightly blurred as his scar started lightly pounding against his forehead. Still, he didn’t panic because it wasn’t at all like last year. Last year, he had felt like something menacing coming after him and it stayed in his head… This time, the feeling spread and filled him with… **_something_**. Something that didn’t terrify him. Something that might have even relaxed him. _What the…_

 

Before he could finish his train of thought, it was as if everyone’s brains restarted at the same time as murmurs started again, much louder than before, nearly defeating in their intensity.

 

“Bloody hell!” Ron nearly yelled from beside him, although it was lost in all the shouting in the Hall. “ ** _HER_**?!”

 

 _Does Ron know her?_ Harry wondered, bemused by his friend's shout. Ron's blue eyes were also wide, staring disbelievingly at the woman that was meant to be their professor. True to fashion Dumbledore quickly put an end to the noise the students were making.

 

"Ah," To Harry, Dumbledore sounded more amused than anything else, “Fashionably late, my dear.” Then with an almost fatherly smile, the Headmaster rose to speak, his voice magically enhanced to reach every student in the enormous Hall. Dumbledore cleared his throat and with a smile, introduced the woman, "Please welcome our new Defence professor against the Dark Arts, Professor Bellatrix Black."

 

 _WHAT?! You have_ **got** _to be kidding me!_ Harry fumed inside his head. _Really? Malfoy's Aunt?! It really does go from bad to worse._

 

Dumbledore turned his twinkling blue eyes towards the woman and said with a little smile, "And welcome home to you, Bellatrix." The woman nodded slightly, looking cold towards such a warm welcome. Dumbledore, though, nodded towards her and motioned her to rise, "A little welcome speech wouldn't be remiss, Professor."

 

The admittedly beautiful woman rose to speak, her black dress and complicated, gold-adorned black hairdo making her look like one of the Queens Harry had seen in his history books when he’d been still learning at the muggle school. But when she spoke, her voice was clear and loud… And arrogant. Very, very arrogant.

 

“If you happen to be running late to my class, don’t bother knocking. I won’t let you in at all.” A startled cough came from the Hufflepuff Head, but the black-haired woman only smirked with a miserly bow, adding almost absentmindedly, “Enjoy your meals.”

 

Harry watched with disbelieving eyes as the woman sat back down, her… speech, for the lack of a better word… apparently complete. _What the bloody hell?_ **She** _arrives late and then this? Hypocrite,_ Harry’s mind echoed the thoughts of all the students in the Great Hall.

 

“Well,” Dean Thomas drawled from his seat, a few spots to the left of Ron, “It **_was_** short and sweet.”

 

“Yeah, mate.” Sean echoed Dean’s tone. “Real sweet. As much as an earwax Bertie Botts bean.”

 

The Second-Year Gryffindors that happened to be near the Irish boy sniggered quietly at his quip, trying to hide the fact that they were laughing following the speech from their newest Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. As it was they needn’t bother since the Headmaster rose again to speak, his cough sounding a little too bewildered to those who knew him.

 

“Yes. Well… Thank you, Professor Black.” Even Professor Dumbledore seemed at a loss of words, trying to find what to say after the newest professor’s apparent boycott of a decent welcoming speech, “I’m sure your students are riveted by your words.”

 

In an impulse, he could seldomly deny, Harry turned his gaze towards Draco to gauge the Slytherin’s certain elation at the reaction his aunt’s words were provoking, and sure enough, when his own emerald gaze met the grey-ish blue eyes, there was a hint of triumph and anticipation for the year to come. Harry returned the look, he couldn't wait to wipe the floor with Draco again this year. Draco smirked in response and rose his head to seemingly look down on Harry. Before Harry could do anything else, Dumbledore spoke.

 

“You may resume your meals. Classes start bright and early after all.”

 

Harry and the rest of his housemates went back to their food while the murmurs grew all around them. The closed-off faces of the other professors' didn't really help with the situation. The new professor seemed to have a mark on her back.  _Probably warranted, really,_ Harry couldn't find within himself to feel too sad about that, if he was being honest.  _Maybe, she'll only be here for a year and then things can go back to normal._

 

A low murmur came from beside him as Dean mumbled something so only Harry could hear, "Do you know about the party?"

 

"A party?" Harry looked at Dean with a bewildered look, "Tonight? Is that normal? We didn't have one last year."

 

"Right... Being chased by the train while driving a flying car, _**right**_... Totally normal." Harry gave Dean a look which the black boy shook off with a laugh, "Right, right, Harry, I figured you didn't know that's why I'm telling you. The elder students organize a party for everyone above the First-Year so that we can have a nice time with the House before the term starts, proper."

 

"And where is it?" Ron, from next to Harry asked Dean.

 

Hermione, who had been in deep conversation with Sean turned to answer, "Just wait until the First-Years are in their dorm and then follow the Seventh-Years."

 

"Hmm..." Harry hummed under his breath while Ron tried to pry any more details from a not so helpful Hermione. Despite all the clamour over the professor, things were starting to feel like they were back to normal.  _Maybe this year won't be so bad after all._

* * *

 _Of course._ Harry cursed inside his head as he dashed the last few meters to the classroom. _Of course, I start the year with freaking DADA and with Malfoy’s stupid aunt._ Harry wheezed as he passed the threshold of the door just in time to see the clock in the room turn to eight-twenty-seven.

 

The party had gone well enough, the elder students had shown the Second-Years the hidden room behind the fireplace where they threw their parties. There were reunions with friends from last year, a little talk about the stunt he and Ron had pulled and some talk about the summer. The Second-Years and the Third-Years had been the first to go to bed at about midnight and then Harry assumed that the party had gone on until the early morning since when he had rushed out of the dorm room - already late for breakfast - the Common Room had been in complete disarray, the party having been passed from the secret room to the common living space. 

 

He'd made it to breakfast, but barely had time to put a piece of toast in his mouth a quickly leave in direction of the classroom. Running, really, to make it on time.

 

Behind him was Ron, bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch back his breath from the draining and wild run that they had just completed from the Great Hall to the DADA classroom. Hermione, true to fashion when it came to his and Ron’s sometimes uncomprehending stupidity, barely even deigned a look at them. Duly chastised by their friend’s behaviour, he and Ron quietly went over to take their seats.

 

Naturally to make matters worse, for today they had the class with every other House since the new professor wanted to introduce herself to everyone at the same time. So not only would he be having a class with the Slytherins, the room was clearly overcrowded and stifling. Thankfully, Hermione, who was, of course, sitting on the first row, had saved two seats for him and Ron in the row behind her.

 

Only when Harry sat did he finally notice that the room – which was in the same place as last year – had been remodeled to fit the new professor’s style. It was as dark as last year’s, the walls covered in dark red wallpaper with several posters of complicated diagrams and at the backend of the classroom was a bookshelf that covered with slightly different books and the ones that had been there last year. The only thing truly that stood apart from last year was the lack of the stifling atmosphere that Quirrell – _Voldemort,_ Harry forced his mind to correct itself – couldn’t quite shake off and for that, it seemed more open and inviting. 

 

The clock turned to eight-twenty-nine and Harry saw Hermione looking worriedly to the door. Harry leaned forward and whispered, "What's wrong?"

 

"Patil and Lavender aren't here yet."

 

Harry closed his eyes with a wince. Beside him, Ron groaned in sympathy. A couple of rows to his left, Padma cursed loudly at her twin sister's irresponsibility. 

 

The class turned to look a the clock. There were merely 30 seconds left. If they didn't make it, the whole Gryffindor House would in a world of trouble.  _Another Slytherin as a professor... We're doomed._

 

Suddenly, miraculously, the rushing of steps could be heard. The Gryffindors turned to quickly look at the door, willing Lavander and Patil to walk through the doors. The rest of the class waited anxiously with Slytherins hoping the duo would hit their faces against the door, the Gryffindors desperately hoping for them to make and the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were merely engaged in the action. 

 

Then, two blurred figured dressed in school robes crashed through the doorway as the door closed behind them as soon as the clock chimed at eight-thirty on the dot. Lavender and Patil fell to the ground, panting heavily. The Gryffindors breathed a sigh of relief, they were safe, for now. The Slytherins, on the other hand, groaned, depressed by the turn of events.

 

Dean rushed to get up from his seat, "Bloody hell, are you two okay?" Asked Dean as he ran to help them up.

 

"Yes. Yes." Patil answered, wiping the sweat off her forehead, "At least we aren't late. I do _**not**_ want to make that woman mad." Lavender could only nod in agreement. The girls stood up and walked over to the last remaining seats. 

 

The class, now that excitement was over, quietly sat at attention waiting for their new professor to arrive. 

 

Eight-thirty-one.

 

Eight-thirty-two.

 

Eight-thirty- _ **five**_.

 

 _What the hell?_ Harry fidgeted in his seat. But was still unwilling to speak aloud.  _She asks to be on time and then she's late? Is this a test?_

 

Eight-forty.

 

Eight-forty-three.

 

Eight-forty-five.

 

Low murmurs started spreading throughout the class. Even some Slytherins had started looking around quizzically, although Harry could that Draco and his gang were calm and were in fact smirking at the whole scene. 

 

Eight-forty-eight.

 

Eight- _ **fifty**_.

 

It was nearly chiming nine when someone finally spoke loud enough for the whole class to hear.  

 

“Is this a test?” Neville wondered aloud, his voice quietly reaching everyone in the class.

 

In front of him, right next to Hermione’s desk, Harry heard Malfoy snicker at Neville’s question. The white-blond haired boy had a hand covering his mouth as if to mask his amusement, but his laugh was loud rendering the whole gesture completely unnecessary.

 

“Oh, Longbottom.” Draco looked back, leaning over the back of the chair, supporting his head on his hand and looking at the Gryffindor boy who had spoken with a fake pout to his lips, clearly making fun of Neville’s question. Harry had to clench his fist in order not to curse Malfoy out as the blond continued, “ ** _Everything_** my aunt will do will be a test.”

 

Harry groaned aloud with the rest of the class – bar the Slytherins and the scarce purebloods who had some experience with Professor Black – as a horrifying thought crossed his mind. _Oh God,_ Harry despaired, _not another Snape._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my computer died on me twice this month, so yeah this is late as all hell.
> 
> So originally the chapter was about 10,000 words long so I decided to split it. So you'll be getting a new chapter VERY soon (like right now guys just click the button or scroll down) but don't get used to it because the schedule update is once every three or so weeks - it's really all my schedule permits guys sorry.


	5. Musings of a Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our first look at my Bellatrix, who can't quite seem to keep a certain someone off her thoughts no matter how much she tries.
> 
> (Again, a fitting description for the canon Harry Potter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE ARE TWO CHAPTERS GUYS!  
> GO BACK IF YOU HAVEN'T READ CHAPTER 4

So okay, maybe, just **_maybe_** in a habit born out of not having a schedule to keep for the past 10-odd years, Bellatrix Black had slept through her alarm and did **_not_** make it to her class on time.

 

 ** _Maybe_**.

 

(Although to be completely fair, she had spent most of the night awake, moving and removing furniture from her office and her chambers. Office and chambers, that had last year belonged to Quirrell and his **_guest._** She had spent hours combing through every surface of the office and throwing out **_most_** of everything that even slightly looked like **_he_** ’d had a hand in.)

 

And **_if_** she had slept through her alarm – which she was **_not_** admitting to, damn it – she certainly was going to lean in, and make it part of her plan B. _Well technically plan E,_ Bellatrix thought amusedly, _None of the first four plans considered me sleeping through the bloody alarm_. Additionally, to be perfectly honest, she’d rather **_die_** first than admit that her first day as a professor had not been as smooth as she had hoped… And most of all, she would have loathed proving Minerva’s fears correct.

 

So, after she let the panic wash over her, she had calmly eaten her breakfast and decided to take her time to get to her classroom. She took a long way around, passing old memory-filled corridors that she had run through when she’d been younger. And as she walked past those ethereal halls and hidden passages – many of which she had shared with her little cousin, Regulus – she reflected on her situation.

 

It was bizarre, to say the least, to be permanently back in the country much less Hogwarts. As Minerva had claimed last night, Bellatrix **_had_** spent most of the past decade living as far away from England as was possible – which with her responsibilities at the Ministry constrained her to Eastern Europe, at the farthest – having spent the past years living quietly in the estate she had in Bulgaria. Alone. Well, **_mostly_** so, at least for the past three years.

 

Her large estate sat squarely in the middle of one of Bulgaria’s supposed uninhabited islands; St. Thomas, to be exact. Also known as Snake Island. She smiled as she neared the corridor of her office where she then could sneak behind the students in her class, when she thought of how she had put a bid on that property rather impulsively back in 1973 when **_he_** had claimed to want to buy it for himself simply because of the delicious irony of that name.

 

He had laughed when she’d won the deed to that plot of land and had called it a good demonstration of power on both sides and then had invited her for dinner, his then-still-dark eyes glinting with the possibility of enticing her to join his cause. She had been taken aback by his sportsmanship and well, her Daddy had always said that it was terribly rude to decline a dinner proposition from an equally powerful adversary. So, they had gone and ate at the most ridiculously expensive restaurant wizardry Bulgaria could provide, had good wine and even better conversation.

 

It had been a good night. Something no one could really experience at that time.

 

Bellatrix paused her walk, realising with a start that she would have to sell the estate back in Bulgaria now that she had no use for it anymore. After a lengthy conversation, she realized that her summers would be spent in England now that there were no travel constraints to adhere to. It seemed that she would have to start cleaning her family’s ancestral home on the weekends, so it’d be ready for the summer.

 

 _Shame,_ Bellatrix thought as she smoothed over some wrinkle in her black, traditional dress, _I do love the cold weather in Bulgaria, but England is home. As it always has been._

 

With a sigh, she made the last turn before reaching the hall that had the door to the back of her classroom. As she passed several of the portraits most ignored her, but one didn't.

 

"A Black, pft." The nearby portrait of well-dressed man sneered and spit out the word as she passed. Bellatrix stopped, truly taken aback that someone as lowly as this portrait would dare to use her family name in such a derogatory way, "Blacks are nothing more than Blood supremacists who should all be put down. This school lowest point has finally been reached: hiring a Black." 

 

Bellatrix felt her blood run hot and her body sing as she felt herself give in to her desire to blast this man off the face of the planet.

 

Bellatrix bit her lip and hummed, feigning disinterest, "A mudblood then, are you?" The portrait's sputtering was enough of an answer for her. With her grey eyes steady and her voice clear, Bellatrix spoke, " **Reducto**." And calmly as if she was partaking in a stroll, Bellatrix took a step back as the man, paint and frame were blown to smithereens under her spell. 

 

Angry beyond belief - the little explosion doing nothing to calm her nerves - Bellatrix walked towards the door to her classroom but paused there, unwilling for anyone to see her like this.

 

 _Blood supremacists._ Bellatrix snarled.  _What a joke._

 

So, yes, she never had any intention of associating with mudbloods, no matter how much softer she was towards them compared to the dark side. To her, they were simply pets, easy enough to get attached to but just as easily ignored. They added _**bodies** _to a dwindling population but would never be their equals, there were simply cultural traditions that you had to experience rather than simply know.  _It's more than though,_ Bellatrix' mind added.

 

It was well documented that Purebloods had markings on their blood that reminded them of long-forgotten practices and history. Markings that fueled centuries-old patterns and feuds, markings that brought out an instinct out of each wizard that was particular to each and every pureblood family and their history. Most didn't have actual visible marks or manifestations of them, but there were those few old families that did.

 

The Bones were famously blue-blooded, the manifestation had started when a Bones had added the blood of a dying breed of a dragon to save the life of one of his sons, the last dragon of that breed had died but had blessed the Bones family with blue blood; fitting really considering their dedication to the famously blue and red Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Potters, well, theirs was a manifestation rather than a visible marking. The firstborn son was always identical to the father and there no amount of potions or adoptions that could change it; the change had happened when one Asher Potter had quite simply fallen in love with the last transmorph in known history, the creature so enamoured had been with Asher in return, that she passed her transmorphing abilities to her son but ensuring that it could never be changed only slightly altered so it wouldn't be 100% identical.

 

There were odd cases too.

 

The Longbottoms were one, for instance. They didn't have a visible mark in their blood not where there visible manifestations but they had an innate inability to grasp the simplest concepts of blood magic; their blood making them literally incapable of becoming Dark Wizards. The soul of a phoenix infused to save the life of its master had supplemented the change. And the Blacks, of course, had their slightly-black-tainted blood that no one quite knew where it came from; they were the oldest family in Britain, their famed black-blood was well-documented but none could find the cause. It, however, made blood magic nearly effortlessness, and Dark Magic ran amok in every branch of their family.

 

There were others, of course. The Malfoys with hints of silver. Scamander's inherent ease with magical creatures. The Flamel orange-like blood.  Lovegood's, high preception levels. Greengrass, herbology mastery. Zabini, adaptability. Parkinson, discipline. Weasley, ingenuity.  

 

Pureblood. Pureblood. Pureblood. Pureblood. Pureblood. **Pureblood.** _Pureblood._   _ **Pureblood.**_   

 

In Bellatrix' eyes, there was no doubt to the mastery of one's blood.  _ **He**_ might have been going at it all wrong, but he **_wasn't_** wrong. They were superior. Mixing blood would inevitable, but it should be controlled, researched to perfection to make sure that nothing would ever be lost before such a thing could occur without jeopardizing everything purebloods had built.

 

Bellatrix ran a hand through her wavy hair and took a deep sigh and counted to ten, backward, in French. She had to calm herself as best as she was able if was going to make it to class. Already more than irritated and late than she wanted to be, Bellatrix crashed through the door of her classroom, startling the already seated students who had been in the process of goofing off when she'd arrive.

 

The entire room seemed to gulp loudly as she walked by. With a menacing walk, that she hadn't even been planning on employing, enhancing her already intimating form and display of magic, there seemed to be nary a peep in that entire floor of the castle much less the room they were in. Bellatrix walked to the front of the room, stopping only when she was close enough to the desk to be able to lean back to, should she wish to do so.

 

She turned, finally looking at each student, studying them with her grey eyes. Finally, after an eternity for the class, she spoke, her voice firm.

 

"Good morning, my name is Bellatrix Black. You will address me as Professor Black and nothing else, are we clear?" All the heads in the room nodded their consent, terrified by her tone and demeanor.  _Good,_ Bellatrix continued, "Furthermore, I am pleased you're all in attendance, make a habit out of it, got it?" More nodding. "Excellent. Now to start the year off, a little quiz to assess your knowledge." With a wave of her hand and more effort than needed to impress the Second-Year students, she made every parchment levitate and land in front of each student, "You have until the end of the class."

 

She had actually planned on giving the exam and then going through a simple introduction of the program and an ability assessment to see where the students ranked but that would have to be left for the next lesson. _Probably a good idea too,_ Bellatrix chuckled to herself, more relaxed now that she had instilled someone with the fear of the Gods,  _It’ll give me an air of ‘do not mess with my class’ that these students sorely need._

 

Once the final parchments settled on the last students’ desk, Bellatrix made a ‘go-ahead’ motion with her hand, signaling the start of the test. Before she could relax as the students took their test, a hand from the front row rose and before Bellatrix could give permission the bushy-haired girl spoke.

 

“But Professor, our next class starts in an hour, this is 50 question long and-…”

 

The bushy-haired girl stopped abruptly when Bellatrix’s raised eyebrow and the sounds of sudden flying fast quills running across parchment were enough of an answer for her. As she rushed to follow her fellow classmates when Bellatrix’ challenge finally seemed breached deep into the minds of the students and as all the students were with their head buried in the exam, Bellatrix casually leaned back against her desk.

 

The test  _ **was**_ comprehensive but not overly complicated. It was long and had some trick question, but those more naturally in tune with magic would be able to fly through it, easily enough to make it to their next class on time and with about 15 minutes to spare. For her money, if she had to bet, her nephew would be among the first, he was a quick study and quite natural with a wand. Blaise Zabini would be in the mid-range she'd guess, she knew him well-enough... He was her godson, after all. The other Slytherins she didn't know so well, but the Parkinson girl had been given some compliments by the girl's hard-to-impress father at the last ministry auction so Bellatrix had slight hopes for her. 

 

Bellatrix took in each of her students. Most, after the initial scare of a written test, were calmer now and were slogging through the test well enough to make it in good time. Others...  _Well, there are always duds in the classroom._ _I'll have my work cut out for me._ From the purebloods, she recognized, Longbottom, Crabbe and Goyle, as well as, the Yaxley brat and ...  _No? It can't be... A Bones? Terrible at DADA?_ _Will wonders ever seize..._ Bellatrix stopped for a moment as she realized.  _I wonder... Could it be?_ She quickly did the math.  _It_ **is** _her! Susan Bones... I wonder how your_ _father is. I haven't seen Jack in ages._

 

Lost in trance, and reminiscence of old friends Bellatrix didn't even see the time pass. And when, from the left side of the room, a voice rose loud enough to almost physically startle her, she was finally shaken out of her stupor.  

 

“Professor Black, I’m finished.” Her nephew - _Draco. Shit._ **Mister** _Malfoy,_ her mind corrected itself - interjected with the casual smugness that was **_so_** Lucius, Bellatrix had to bite her tongue not to curse her **_beloved_** nephew out.  _Smug little bastard,_ the fondness in her heart for Draco couldn’t be overshadowed by (nearly) anyone but still, she couldn’t let her nephew think he could run the show just because she spoiled him rotten outside school.

 

“That may well be, Mister Malfoy, but your fellow students haven’t. So please, **_quietly_** …” she unfairly stressed the word, making her nephew flush slightly under the reprimand, “…deliver your test on my desk and leave my classroom.”

 

Draco rose from his seat, his embarrassment forgotten – or more likely, pushed down in an effort to look as unaffected as possible – and strode carelessly towards her desk, where he laid the test down with a nod and promptly turned around in the move he had clearly learned from Severus and left the room, head held high.

 

Bellatrix barely kept a smirk to herself. Draco truly was a pureblood, that poise could not be faked, it was instilled in all of them since birth, dark or light. Being a pureblood always came with a certain prestige that couldn’t be unmade. It was a curse and a gift, luckily for Draco, he seemed to have made the best of it… _For now,_ Bellatrix chewed on her lip absentmindedly, _Who knows how the tables will turn once_ **he** _’s_ _back_ _for good._

 

Speaking of, there were several reasons why she’d devised this test and one of them was to see how the Golden Trio – a nickname coined by Draco – worked under pressure and unexpected surprises. She had, after all, heard of the mess that had happened last year. 

 

With a feigned disinterested look, Bellatrix looked at the three students in question.

 

First, the one she knew the best. Well, the one she had the most **_knowledge_** on. Ronald Weasley. She had been at his Name Day… For as removed as she was from the Order she **_had_** been integrated enough to be granted an invitation… And was well acquainted with his family, had even had a little bit of a rivalry with the boy’s mother when they’d been younger. She could take a gander on how the boy felt; the last boy in a line of six brothers, coming from a previous Noble House that was left in ruins after a particularly ugly row with the Malfoy Family about a century ago. _Ignored. Forgotten. Jealous. Last._ Bellatrix didn’t have to use her considerable Legilimency skills to figure out the boy felt.

 

Bellatrix noted that the Granger girl had already finished and was merely waiting for the rest of the class to be over. _Curious,_ Bellatrix pondered, _After all, I’ve made it clear that you_ **can** _leave as soon as you finished._ Bellatrix carefully made up a chart of the girl: preoccupied with her grades, know-it-all, conceited, overly concerned with being the best. _Uhm, I do believe I’ve got you pegged, Miss Granger._

 

And finally, the last of the Golden Trio. The star. The one name that was on everyone’s lips. _Harry bloody Potter, who would have thought._

 

Bellatrix had known both James and Lily, although the former not very well. Lily had been one of the few decent mudbloods; knowledgeable about wizardry rituals but ignorant on their meaning, much better than those who were ignorant about both. Lily had, quite frankly, been merely James' wife. James, however, she had known since he was a babe and it would come as a surprise to no one that she had hated his guts -  he was an immature, lazy, cocky, arrogant son of a bitch who had dragged her cousin down to his level - but he had grown up, he had gotten smarter and had wisened up as the war became inescapable. She had become a sort of friend to him during the last year of the war, mostly through Sirius. She had been in Bulgaria for Halloween when the attack had happened and she had  _ **felt**_ for his death.

 

Harry, though -  _Baby Potter,_ has Bellatrix had always called him ever since she found out it drove James mad since she always condescendingly called him 'Potter', instead of James - had always been an abstract person in her world. She had learned when Lily had been pregnant but had never seen the kid. And then that kid went and defeated a Dark Lord. _Still boggles the mind, really. How did he do it? And did he even do it?_ **He** _has used a lot of Dark Rituals, maybe some interfered with whatever accidental magic Baby Potter did..._

 

She was brought out of her musings when the bell rang and all the quills flew from the students' hands and to come rest at Bellatrix' desk and extended her hand to collect the tests the students' were personally handing in. She sneakily watched as Granger scolded the boys about time and how easy it had been, she also watched as Baby Potter rolled his eyes at the girl, and the Weasley boy winced when the bushy-haired girl pointed out a mistake on the test. 

 

In tandem, Harry, Ron, and Hermione handed-in their tests. Bellatrix received them with a nod and could barely keep a shiver to herself when her hand brushed with the Potter's boy. He was powerful, she could feel the magic teeming inside of him, but there was something odd and familiar about it. It wasn't James, she knew his magic, so perhaps it was Lily's... But for it to be so familiar, seemed... farfetched. Bellatrix eyes followed the boy as he left, bewildered by the exchange. 

 

Bellatrix refocused her grey eyes from and watched as the last students left the room, with Alice’s son being the last one to walk out behind the Golden trio, leaving the room a little bit too pale. _Poor kid probably did terribly._ Bellatrix hid her smile, _He’s a little too much like Frank, who was always much better at Herbology than DADA. But I bet I can bring out the little bit of Alice he has in him._

 

She rearranged the room with a wave of her wand, making all the chairs and stools go back into place. She had about two or so minutes before the Sixth Years would arrive. Now all she had to do was find somewhere to hide to give everyone the same time to take her test. With a sigh, she left the room, the same way she had entered, sneakily out the back.

 

The year was only now just starting, and she has already tired the intricacies of teaching.

 

 _Terrific,_ Bellatrix drawled as she hid in the darkest corner of her classroom when the voice of Marcus Flint rang across the room. Bellatrix leaned back against the wall with a sigh as the Slytherin and a Gryffindor kid – with the unfortunate last name of Wood – rowed over something or another. _It’s going to be a long, long year._

* * *

Unlike the first night, the second night after the beginning of the term was always a calm one. The elder students usually had their welcoming party right after the Welcoming Feast and partied until all hours in the morning and so, naturally, the night after, after being to classes on only a couple hours of sleep the castle was quiet.

 

But, however calm the second night was for the students, the professors had their own little party. With considerably more alcohol – although not by that much – and much more gossiping. This year, however, there was one professor missing from the party. The professor in question was locked in her chambers, more precisely in her private office, grading that day’s diagnostic papers.

 

Scratching sounds of a quill rushing across parchment could be heard throughout the nearly barren room. The room was yet to be decorated although a few loose strings of the previous dark wallpaper could be seen. The bare stone gave the room a colder feel than necessary and the lack of any furniture besides a desk and chair gave a chilling atmosphere for any prospective visitor, still, the warm light and heat of the lit fireplace gave the room some much-needed warmth and the Jasmin and ginger-infused perfume that was characteristically Bellatrix’ – it was in fact, **_specifically_** her signature scent, made especially for her – mixed with the slight smell of the black ink pot, gave the room a little more character.

 

Suddenly, the scratching came to a harsh pause. And then, the sound of a shattering inkpot echoed in the emptiness of the space as on the stone floor black pools of ink, stained the surface.

 

Chest heaving and heavily breathing, Bellatrix rose from her seat with an angry snarl and threw her quill down next to the shattered inkpot. With another frustrated sigh, she ran her hands through her wavy hair and paced the room for a few endless minutes. _Damn him._ Bellatrix cursed. _Damn him straight to Hell._

 

After a calming exhale, Bellatrix flopped back in the padded dark chair with a huff. She let out another sigh – this time, contented – when she found herself nestled in the single piece of furniture that she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of. Bellatrix had recognized the chair as soon as she’d seen it when she’d arrived, after all, she had seen it far, far too often in a wing of Malfoy Manor when she’d been visiting her newly-wed sister and her lived-in **_guest_**.

 

It belonged to **_him_**.

 

She was certain.

 

But, thinking of **_him_** made near her almost lose control.

 

Again.

 

Another defeated sigh and disgusted look at the parchments in her desk and Bellatrix felt angry enough to shatter all the inkpots she could find in the whole fucking castle. The diagnostic tests were near perfect, so much so that even the students that clearly were well below average had managed to pass the comprehensive test. And as much as she wanted to solely attribute the test scores to the students’ innate talent and skill, she knew she couldn’t.

 

It had to do with the previous professor… It had to do with **_him_** , and she could not deny it. And it irked her, it annoyed her, it made her want to throw the nearest object through the window of her fifth-story chambers.

 

 ** _He_** had told her once, early in 1974 – when she’d been younger, and he’d been trying to get her to take his mark – that his desire to be a professor had been as real and as important as his desire to rule over the Wizardry World. She had laughed in his face – his desire to have her in his movement big enough to allow her certain privileges – and had called him a mad man for even comparing the two positions.

 

He then, calmly and with a passionate tone, she had rarely ever seen him use, had explained how a single professor was enough to influence an entire generation of students. He had spent hours with her that summer day – at the wedding of some distant Pureblood cousin that she’d been forced to attend, and he’d inserted himself into as he had done at many Pureblood events before – discussing the various ways he could influence the younger generations to his view had he been able to actually become the Defence Against the Dark Arts’ professor as he had planned when he’d been on the Continent.

 

The irony that she now occupied the very spot that he had so clearly craved didn’t escape her notice. _Oh, Tom…_ Bellatrix sighed. _The things you could have done..._

 

She had been a little enthralled by that version of Tom Riddle, the professor. And when he had offered to teach her the things he had learned on the Continent, she had almost jumped at the chance and had been so close to saying ‘yes’ when **_something_** – …something raw, unexplainable, and impossible to deny… – had instead made her refuse his offer. He had taken the rejection with a charming smile and witty joke on his lips, though she could tell she had hurt his pride. For the next couple of years, he’d try again and again to entice her to his side with nothing but negative results for him.

 

 _Ah, darling…_ Bellatrix closed her eyes, and her hand rose to fiddle with the expensive and ornate black necklace that seldomly left her neck _… Just how long are you going to make us wait._  

 

Unbeknown to Bellatrix, at that exact same time a girl with a head of golden-red hair was writing into the enchanting diary that had appeared mysterious in her bag, setting into motion things she couldn’t possibly understand. And as Bellatrix settled in for the night, the students slept in their beds, and the teachers gossiped in a room in an untraveled part of the castle, the dice for the new school year was being cast.

 

Now the only thing left to do was to see how the rest will play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said before, the schedule for this fic is one chapter every three weeks give or take.  
> So technically the prologue would have ended here… four chapters and about 20,000 words later xd. I hope you liked my Bellatrix and the reactions of everyone! Let me know what you think.  
> Now starts the fanfic proper. See you in three (or so) weeks, pls read and review.


	6. Meddlesome Little Imps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry deals with Draco, Detention and Disaster.

It had been three weeks of relatively normal classes, and Harry was starting to believe that this year might not actually be that bad after all. Yes, he still had detention with McGonagall but other than that, it had been a peaceful month.

 

And finally, this week, after waiting breathlessly all summer, he’d finally be atop a broom again. Oliver had scheduled the first Quidditch practice of the season and Harry couldn’t wait. The first game would be in two weeks’ time with the Slytherins. _Of course,_ mused Harry,  _of course the first game of the season is with the Slytherins… Who apparently have a new Seeker._ Harry thought of Rowan O’Claire, last season’s Slytherin Seeker, the teen had graduated and left a hole in the Slytherin’s team, which apparently Marcus Flint had been quick to fill.

 

When Oliver told them at the meeting, in those exact words, there was a mighty big blush on his face that Harry couldn’t figure out but had set off Fred, George, Angelina and Katie something fierce, so much so that Harry could still remember their hysterical laughter.

 

After the meeting, Ron and Hermione had met with him and now he and his friends were taking a shortcut back to their Common Room. The corridor they found themselves was common enough, stone covered the walls and floors, with scarce paintings adorning its high walls, but despite its banality the corridor was hardly used, even professors rarely passed the hallway.

 

Harry heard absentmindedly as Hermione and Ron bickered in the background over something or another that he couldn’t care less about. As they rounded out a corner, they suddenly came face to face with a trio of Silver-and-Green students.

 

At the sight of them – of these **_particular_**  three students – Harry couldn’t control the growl that escaped his throat, with Ron echoing the sound and Hermione managing a more restrained – though not by much – huff.

 

Pansy Parkinson was a tall girl, easily towering over Harry with long legs and long torso, she could have been awkwardly proportionated but that wasn’t the case. Her shiny dark hair cut straight around her head, came to her shoulders, and combined with the fringe framed her already fashioned face in a pretty picture. And her eyes were of the darkest black Harry had ever seen, almond-shaped and pretty set against her pale complexion. Still, Harry knew, she was as vicious as she was pretty.

 

Next to her – and if she was tall, this next one was taller still - was a dark and pretty figure. **_That_** was Blaise Zabini; with his glowing dark-tinted skin, curling hair, big dark eyes, patrician nose all sculpted on a round face that hadn’t yet angled enough to match the beautiful features. Harry was sure that once he grew into them, Blaise would quickly pass from pretty to downright handsome. Still, despite his obvious physical attributes, Blaise Zabini’s emotional features left Harry something to be desired.

 

But worse still, than Blaise and Pansy Parkinson was the other person standing in that middling travelling corridor. Draco Malfoy, perfect blond hair and blue eyes tainted grey, tall and already handsome. Draco was, and Harry had no doubt he’d always be, a pain in his ass; arrogant beyond belief, meddling unlike any other and incredibly – and Harry did truly mean **_incredibly_** – annoying.

 

But if alone Draco was intolerable, with company… Well, Harry wondered if the fact he already had detention would stop him from getting another.     

 

“Oh, look, it’s Scarhead and his posse.” Draco’s voice echoed in the corridor, and Harry felt his blood boil, “Shouldn’t you be outside making your daddy proud by saving a kitten stuck in a tree?”

 

Next to him, Pansy laughed, “Don’t you mean **_attacking_** a poor tree, Dray?”

 

“Why, Pansy,” Blaise’s lilted voice shadowed by a hint of an accent, snickered with the girl, “I do think he meant that!”

 

The Silver-and-Green trio laughed mockingly at them and Harry gritted his teeth. _What a bunch of assholes…_ Of course everyone knew about his and Ron’s little **_adventure_** with the Whompping Willow by now, but most were polite enough to not mention anything. Slytherins always did like getting on his nerves and well, Harry wasn’t one to let an insult fly unanswered.

 

“Yeah, Malfoy, and how does daddy dearest feel about you being on the Quidditch Team?” Harry feigned shock, “Oh right, I keep forgetting. You aren’t on it.”

 

It was a low blow, one he wasn’t even sure he would have used if he hadn’t heard Draco talking about it in the shop, still Harry couldn’t care less. The insult however, much to his chagrin didn’t have the wanted effect, because instead of fuming anger what Harry saw was the three Slytherins smirk in unison.

 

Harry wondered what was worse that he had failed to land his insult or the creepy way that the smirks mirrored each other exactly. _Do they have classes to perfect that stupid smile? And why exactly_ **isn’t** _he insulted?_

 

But, Draco, smirk firmly in place gave answer to his last question.

 

“I’m glad you brought that up, Potter, because you see…I hope you’re ready for the game in two weeks,” Harry resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall. _No. No._ **No** _. How in the hell?..._ Harry didn’t want to believe it, “Because you’ll be flying against me.”

 

Harry growled, “And how exactly did **_you_** manage that?”

 

“Talent.” Draco spoke, chest puffed.

 

“Innate ability.” Pansy added.

 

Blaise then cheekily, “Oh, and a shit ton of money to, ah, let us say, buy new and better brooms.”

 

“You mean you bought your way in, snake.” Hermione hissed and while not her brightest insult it rang true nonetheless, “As if new brooms will get you anywhere near that trophy. Everyone in our team got there by their own merit… Unlike you.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and he gritted through clenched teeth, “What would you know about it, Mudblood?”

 

And then, as it was meant to be, all hell broke loose.

 

Ron was quick to draw his wand, Hermione right behind him and Harry, rushed to follow his friends’ movements. The Slytherin Trio was only smirking at them, but when they saw their wands raised they rushed to get their own wands out of their holster, their smirks lost in the movement and glares steeled on privileged faces.

 

An impasse asserted itself as everyone in the deserted corridor waited for the other to make a move. Harry’s eyes locked with Draco as his heart raced out of his chest, anticipation and adrenaline coating his veins with a delicious trill. He was vaguely aware of Hermione and Parkinson trading looks, and Ron snarling at a smirking Zabini.

 

Outside, an owl cried out as it passed the window.

 

And so it began.

 

A **Diffendo** cut through the air, and suddenly Ron and Zabini were out of sight as the black boy ducked being a corridor to avoid Ron’s spell. His ginger best-friend followed and the two of them moved in tandem towards an even less travelled corridor, out of view, leaving Draco, Harry, Hermione and Pansy in their own duels.

 

Parkinson attacked next, a yellow **Flippendo** escaped her wand and sailed towards Hermione who had no chance but to evade, they too moved towards another corridor, opposite to Ron and Zabini, trading spells and insults along the way. Leaving Harry and Draco, who still hadn’t moved, alone.

 

“ **Aquamenti** ” Harry yelled, his wand moving in an arch.

 

Draco swivelled to avoid the high-pressure water jet that flowed through his ebony wand, and with a reflex Harry wasn’t even sure Draco was capable of, the previously perfectly-coifed blond boy set out a ‘ **Petrificus Totalus** ’ in Harry’s direction and the vase behind him shattered as Harry barely had time to dance out of the way.

 

Harry groaned as he collided with the wall as he tried to escape Draco’s spell, recovering quickly he cast a ‘ **Wingardium Leviosa** ’ on the shards of the vase and threw them at Draco, who dashed forward to tackle Harry further into the wall, his wizardry ancestry apparently forgotten in the struggle. Harry winced as Draco pushed further and the window besides them cracked a little when Harry’s hand hit it. As it did so, he lost the handle on his wand along with Draco who was dazed on the floor due to the fight. With a quick scramble Harry picked up his wand and just as he was about to shout a ‘ **Flippendo** ’ he was suddenly pushed away from Draco, and his wand as well as Draco’s were flying in the direction of the opposite corridor.

 

Harry turned his head towards the hallway, and he could swear he’d felt his heart stop.

 

_Oh, fuck._

 

There in that ordinary corridor with his and Draco’s wand in hand was the not-so-tall but plenty-intimidating figure of his Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Hair done up in a bun, plain – if expensive – dark dress that reached her calves and for some ungodly reason high-heels. Standing there in that sun-lit corridor tinged orange with the light of a late-afternoon sun she looked gloomily out of place.

 

But if her appearance made her look like a bat out of hell, her demeanour did not betray such. Her eyes surveyed the damage that his little fight with Draco had caused, and as a delicate eyebrow rose, Harry knew he was in for it.

 

When she opened her mouth, her pitch was stark and harsh, “My office.” Harry flinched and saw Draco doing the same, “ ** _Now_**.” The woman didn’t need to yell to be intimidating. The command, issued through gritted teeth, gripped Harry’s heart, and forced him to move automatically rather than with a conscious thought.

 

The Professor lead them away from that corridor, not looking back to see if they were following her, sure that they were and sure that they wouldn’t dare to disobey her. Soon enough, they were standing near the corridor that lead to the student’s entrance for the DADA classroom, but instead of taking that last turn a door magically appeared on his side. A door that wasn’t previously there, a door that Professor Black had seemingly willed into existence.

 

The door opened and after his Professor and Draco walked through the threshold, Harry followed behind to catch his first glimpse of the office.

 

It was dark of course, not that Harry was surprised. Dark brown wallpaper covered the walls with an earthy feel clinging all around the office, countless little jars laid about full of plants, rocks and preserved animal parts… All from the darker side of the Magical World, Harry was sure.

 

The office had four doors, Harry could see, one that he had came in, another that lead to the Professor’s private chambers, another to the classroom and another that Harry couldn’t fathom why it was there. Still the room kept its dark looks, the wood being near black and the three windows were covered by dark blind, with the only source of light being the laden candles across the room. Harry guessed that she must have an **_aesthetic_** to maintain.

 

Harry took a deep breath as he tried to come to terms with the situation, and as he did so a dark, heavy, striking scent invaded his senses: ginger and jasmine. For a minute Harry thought that some incense was burning in the room, but after a quick look he realized that it was merely his professor’s perfume.

 

He wasn’t quite sure how he managed to match the heavy scent of the room to the subtle scent of his professor, but his mind was sure of the connection and he didn’t dare question it.     

 

Harry struggled not to audibly gulp down his fear and stood as straight as he was able. He was dismayed to find that despite that, Draco still towered over him. _Jerk_ , Harry cursed the Slytherin, even if the fault of his diminished height lay in his aunt and uncle’s **_charitable_** treatment.

 

One of the things Harry had to admit was that Professor Black was surprisingly, more-or-less, fair. Oh, she had a clear preference for her former House, obvious by the higher House points Slytherins got for the same actions the other Houses did.  But when it came to docking points she was impossibly harsher on Slytherins, taking out crazy amounts of points and often dishing out dressing-downs that sent a chill even down Harry’s spine.

 

Harry turned his gaze from the blond to look at his professor. She was leaning against her dark desk, eyes closed, and nose pinched between fingers in an exasperated gesture that Harry felt was just this side of a touch-too-dramatic. Then to complete the picture, the woman sighed.

 

“I feel that if I say, ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’, it might sound too much like mother.” Harry felt more than saw Draco shake with laughter, Harry fought not to roll his eyes and wondered if his professor’s characteristic behaviour against Slytherin’s might be broken for her nephew, “Not to mention the fact that I’d be lying.” She finished with a harsh turn.

 

Well, Draco certainly wasn’t laughing anymore.

 

“What happened, exactly?” Professor Black’s voice seemed to fill every nook and cranny of her dark office. When neither he or Draco spoke, the black-haired woman injected more authority into her voice, nearly making both Harry and Draco flinch as she asked again, “Mind telling me what happened boys, or do I need to start calling in witnesses?”

 

The two maintained their silence. It was an unspoken rule between students; you just don’t rat out each other. And while Draco was usually more than willing to break that rule, Harry figured that in this case it was different. Professor Black was unlikely to be sympathetic towards Draco – despite the familial relation. It was one of the things that Professor Black had in common with Professor McGonagall.

 

“Don’t make me ask again, boys. You won’t like it.” The permafrost in her voice was strong enough to nearly be felt on his skin. And Harry winced again. When six, seven and then eight seconds passed without a single sound coming out of the boys mouths, the professor pressed, “Fine, then. Shall I call in the ghost that the both of you scared enough to run, actually **_run_** ,” his professor stressed, “into my office screaming his bloody head off.”

 

And **_that_** was something that Professor Black didn’t share with Professor McGonagall; if the situation called for it the woman would swear up a storm, Harry had seen it often enough when some kid goofed off in class.

 

A sharp cough called in the aforementioned ghost.

 

And Harry nearly groaned.

 

Fat Friar was not exactly what Harry would call a comforting witness. The man knew how to exaggerate well enough to not **_lie_** , exactly, but to make a situation worse than it seemed. A shame because the ghost really was kind, he was just a tad too given to… hysterics.

 

When the ghost came into the scarce light of the office – _And why does the woman even have candles lit in the middle of the day,_ Harry despaired against the artificial light, _let the Sun in, Christ’s sake –_ Harry would swear up and down that the ghost actually had tears falling down his round, kind face. At the pitiful display, Harry might have felt a smidge of guilt… That is he **_would_** , if the ghost wasn’t about to screw him over.

 

“Friar, please do tell what happened?”

 

“Again, little Miss Black?” Harry had never seen eyes flash so harshly before as he did his Professor’s. She was not happy with the ghosts little nickname. _Also, she already knows what happened, why is she asking him again?_

 

“ ** _Friar_** ,” the woman stressed the title, “it’s  ** _Lady_**  Black. And I'm asking you to tell your version in front of the students because I want to see if they have the gall to dispute it."

 

“Very well, child.” Harry could swear he saw Professor Black’s eye twitch, “I was traveling my favourite corridor when I came to see Mister Potter and his friends facing off with Mister Malfoy and his friends. A fight broke out, Mister Weasley started,” Harry bite his lip not to protest that Draco’s insult was enough of a provocation, but he doubted anyone else in the room – the Friar who sometimes used that term innocently for he was a product of his time, and the pureblood witch that shared her views with Malfoy – would care enough, “And then all hell broke loose.”

 

“So you’ve told me… And between these two?”

 

“Mister Potter started it.”

 

“I see.” The woman hummed, “Is it true?” Draco nodded very quickly, triumph clear in his eyes, and the Professor then turned to him, “Mister Potter?”

 

Well, the account wasn’t **_exactly_** right. But it wasn’t exactly wrong either. Harry said nothing and Professor Black seemed to take that at face value and merely turned to the ghost again.

 

“Thank you, Friar, you’re dismissed.” Harry thought the tone was sort of rude, but the ghost happily went his way, the slight of the professor apparently unnoticed. As soon as the three of them were alone again the professor spoke, “I remember how much I hated that meddlesome imp when I was at school, always managed to make a situation worse.” Harry felt hope rise within his chest at his professor’s words, “Nevertheless, I’ve never known him to **_lie_**.”

 

Whatever hope he had felt, vanished as quickly as it appeared.

 

“Mister Potter, detention.” Harry wasn’t quite able to contain the flinch at her sharp tone, and he didn’t need to turn to see Draco smirking at him, being able to practically  ** _feel_** the Slytherin’s smugness on his skin. However, Professor Black wasn’t over, “And Mister Malfoy, detention.”   

 

“ ** _WHAT?!_** ” Draco’s incredulous tone was like music to Harry’s ears and the Gryffindor boy had to duck his head to hide the grin he couldn’t quite keep off his face.

 

“Mister Malfoy, I urge you to reconsider your tone.” If Harry had thought her tone as harsh before, he had no idea what to think of it now, he was just glad that he wasn’t the one that had roused that tone out of his Professor. When Draco merely stood there, Professor Black narrowed her eyes at her student, “Unless you want to extend the detention time to ‘indefinitely’?”

 

Harry watched with a self-satisfied smirk as Draco seemed to deflate before his eyes. He watched his silver-and-green rival swallow the lump in his throat before lifting his head to look right in their Professor’s eyes before nodding his head.

 

“No, Professor. I’m sorry, Professor.”

 

Harry had to give it to his blond rival, he had a lot of nerve to be able to look at their professor’s glare straight on.

 

“Good.” Bellatrix nodded and mentioned towards the door, “You may take your leave, Mister Malfoy.” Harry couldn’t help but notice that the professor hadn’t dismissed him. Draco however, took the command to heart and left the room, leaving Harry and Professor Black alone for the first time since Harry had met her. As soon as the door closed behind Draco, something seemed to shift in the room.

 

Quite out of nowhere the air became heavy, thick with some unidentified element. Harry felt his heart pick up – not in fear, no, he knew what **_that_** felt like and this time it was different; it was not unlike the thrill he’d felt when he’d fought Draco and Harry couldn’t help but wonder, _Am I expecting a fight?_ – he rose his amber-coloured hand to his forehead as his scar throbbed like it hadn’t since that first night of the school year. Harry rushed to close his bright green eyes and fought to keep his balance as his senses seemed to overwhelm him seemingly out of nowhere. _What is happening to me?_

 

Harry felt the wind on his face as someone – Professor Black, surely, but he couldn’t be sure, he was so dazed – forced him into a chair. Harry didn’t need to look to know that he was more-than-likely sprouting an embarrassing shade of green as his stomach revolted against him.

 

“Breathe, boy, breathe.” A voice sounded around him, and while not particularly soothing Harry heeded the advice, drawing breath to his starved lungs and reducing his heartbeat to a normal tempo. He opened his eyes and saw his professor standing close to him, but not crowding him or touching him, giving him ample space to breathe, “Good boy. Well done. One more time.”

 

Harry took one last deep breath and relaxed against the back of the chair.

 

“Is this a recurring incident, Mister Potter?” The soft, throaty voice of his professor reached his ears. And while her voice was not exactly melodic, its slow drawl enabled Harry to relax further.

 

Harry didn’t know what to say, because while the **_incidents_** were not recurring, it had happened more than once, but… How could he tell her that it only happened when she was in the room? Or when they were alone? How could he put into words that his **_scar_** given to him by **_Voldemort_** throbbed ceaselessly whenever her attention was on him?

 

He couldn’t, he quickly decided, he couldn’t do that without consequence. So he did the next best thing… He lied.

 

“Yes, professor. But they pass quickly.” He hoped she’d buy it. And it wasn’t **_exactly_** a lie either.

 

Her eyes narrowed and Harry felt his chest tighten a little at her expression, but when she spoke, it seemed that she was half-way into buying his lie, “Little migraines then?”

 

“I-uhm, yes.”

 

Harry almost snorted. _Well, the stumbling isn’t exactly helping my case, is it?_

 

“I assume that you have the necessary…medication… to get through it?” Her emphasis on ‘medication’ told him that she saw right through him but nevertheless, he decided to play safe and simply nod his head now. She hummed a little, “Uhm,” and Harry knew she was unconvinced, but she didn’t raise another question.   

 

Silence echoed in the dark room, with only the ticking clock giving sign of its presence. Harry grew anxious as minutes passed without a sound from the professor. _Is she mad that I lied – and I’m sure she can see that I did – and now refuses to speak?_ Harry pondered. _Is she waiting for me to make a move?_

 

Harry clenched his fist tightly, he was never this uneasy when speaking with other professors. Not even Snape elicited such a reaction out of him. _I need to know what’s going on? Why do I feel so… tense when I’m speaking with her?_

 

So, Harry made the first move.

 

“Was there something you wanted, professor?” Some of the other professors, he’d call ma’am or sir, but with Professor Black he wouldn’t dare utter a word that didn’t run at least four times through his head.

 

He seemed to have pulled out of her stupor. She shook her head and looked at him like she had forgotten that he was in the room to begin with, however, she covered it up quickly and after a delicate cough to clear her throat she spoke as if minutes hadn’t passed since she’d last done so.

 

“I was going to ask if you’d finish your detention with Minerva, actually.” Professor Black rolled her eyes – grey, Harry could see now, not so dissimilar to Draco’s, but darker, stormier with a hint of **_something_** that Harry couldn’t identify – and a smirk on her perfect red lips, “Honestly almost a month of detention for a prank, absurd.”

 

Harry had to bite his tongue to not say that it hadn’t, in fact, been a prank and to not ask what she would have done if it had been one of the Slytherins that had destroyed school property and violated the Secrecy Statute. Oh, he knew all about that Statute now, McGonagall had forced him and Ron to recite it every night for detention as well as write it over 100 times. It was  ** _ingrained_** in his brain now.

 

“I-I still have my last detention tomorrow, Professor, but other than that I’m free.” Harry couldn’t believe he had stumbled through his words. The woman hummed and Harry could almost see her shifting her schedule to accommodate him. A question bugged on his mind and after gathering his courage Harry dared ask, “Professor, may I ask-…”

 

Harry didn’t get to finish his question. Professor Black sighed and with resigned look answered him.

 

“Your friends were also caught, if that was your question. Miss Granger and Miss Parkinson are with Snivi-,“The professor’s eyes widen and she abruptly coughed into her hand, “I mean, Professor Snape.” And Harry was delighted to understand that the dungeon bat had an unflattering nickname, still Harry couldn’t help but feel for Hermione who’d get the brunt of the detention. Snape wouldn’t punish Parkinson. As for Ron, “Mister Zabini and Mister Weasley weren’t so lucky.”

 

 _Oh no._ Harry winced there was only one professor that Professor Black spoke of with such derision. _Oh, Merlin, poor Ron._ Harry groaned aloud.

 

Professor Black snorted at him, “Quite.” With a sigh she confirmed his suspicions, “I’m afraid that your Head of House got to them before anyone else could.”

 

_Shit._

 

Well, Ron was never leaving detention with McGonagall at this point.

 

“Now, Mister Potter,” his professor spoke, softly but steely, “You’re dismissed. Be back here, tomorrow after dinner and we’ll talk more about your punishment.” With that she turned around to circle her desk and sit in the high, black chair.

 

Harry stood, entirely dismissed and the left room, wondering if he rushed he could still get some dinner and be in time for his final punishment with McGonagall

* * *

The next night, after having spent the rest of last night and the better part of this day explaining to his Housemates what had happened, Harry found himself looking at the door leading to his Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor’s office.

 

Harry waited for a bit, he was expecting Draco, not that Harry needed him, but his professor had been very clear that if they entered the room separated the punishment would increase exponentially. Harry scowled, he was **_sure_ **that the professor was just messing with them at this point.

 

The sound of steps coming in the hallway, relaxed his racing mind. There was only one type of person who’d dare to come to Professor Black’s office when she was dishing out detention, and it wasn’t hard to figure out who.

 

Sure enough, soon the rushing of steps got closer and Harry could finally see a flop of blond hair rushing into view. Draco stopped in front of him and raised an eyebrow.

 

“Ready, Potter?” Harry nodded and wondered if the woman would make him do any lines, like professor McGonagall had. Frighteningly, Draco seemed to read his mind, “My aunt doesn’t believe in lines, Potter.”

 

Draco spoke vehemently, and Harry felt the need to roll his eyes again, the Slytherin always stressed their familial relation, even if Harry had never even seen any evidence that his professor benefited Draco any differently. In fact, he now knew the woman to be impossibly harsher on her nephew than anyone else, always pushing him forward, always **_pushing_ ** her nephew to do better. To **_be_ **better. Harry wasn’t sure he liked it. But other than that, Draco’s relationship with his aunt seemed lukewarm at best.

 

With one last withering look at Draco, Harry raised his amber-coloured hand to knock on the door, the sound echoing endlessly in the empty corridor. A faint, ‘Come in’ made Draco push the door open into the office.

 

There in the candle-lit space was Professor Black, leaned over her desk with a mountain of papers on her desk. She was deeply concentrated on the parchment ahead of her, if her frown was anything to go by. Harry wondered if they were about to correct assignments with her, it wouldn’t be terrible; after all, DADA was his favourite class, he could do with learning more.

 

Draco, impatiently but politely made a little scuffling sound with his feet. Harry realised with a start that Draco had done the sound on purpose because it was enough to get Professor Black’s head to lift from the desk to look at them.  _Maybe they aren’t as estranged as they seem, if he knows that that is enough to get her attention._

 

“Ah, you’re here. Good. Sit, sit.”

 

As the professor motioned towards the chairs in front of them, facing the desk – chairs they hadn’t been able to use the last time, so harry was hopeful that the punishment wouldn’t be as bad – he noticed something was wrong with her hand. Three of her fingers… they were twisted almost unnaturally and scared something fierce. Harry looked at her more carefully, and **_there_  ** ! A scar on her eyebrow. With an even more attentive look, and a sudden shift that she made, and **_there, again_  **! A thin scar on her neck, that ran down below the collar of her traditional witch dress.

 

It was too many scars to be a coincidence; she had fought in the war. _Now which side she was on, is the question._ Harry wondered. Harry doubted that Dumbledore would hire someone who worked for Voldemort, but he couldn’t imagine someone like Malfoy’s aunt, someone who Mister Weasley had clearly disliked, a **_Slytherin_ **through and through as Professor Black was to be on their side.

 

Before he could further dwell on it, his professor spoke, demanding his attention. He noticed she had leaned backward on her chair and was looking at them with a calculation look in her eyes. Harry nearly gulped.

 

“It took me a while to figure out an adequate punishment for the both of you, after all, writing lines does nothing to change behaviour and I doubt you need me tell you that fighting in a corridor in the middle of the day is bad idea.” Harry couldn’t help but wonder if she was more disappointed that they got caught than the fight itself, “Nevertheless, an idea occurred to me.”

 

For some reason, her casual tone sent shivers down Harry’s spine. It didn’t help that Draco – her nephew, who surely knew her better than he did – was shivering right alongside him.

 

“You see,” the woman leaned forward, and the candles cast an almost menacing shadow on her face, “I haven’t had the time to organize my things since I’ve arrived, so the both of you are going to land a hand.”

 

Harry nearly breathed a sigh of relief, as punishments go, it wasn’t so bad; organizing a few books hardly seemed tame in comparison to the other possibilities. With a glance towards Draco, his confidence dissipated, the blond seemed even more on edge now. And Harry soon realized why.

 

Professor Black rose from her chair and with a motion led them to that final fourth door that Harry had puzzled at yesterday. When that fourth door opened, Harry finally saw the immensity of the task ahead of him.

 

_Oh, no._

 

A collection of at least two dozen piles each with about dozen books were laid across the floor, ancient and new ones alike all scattered across the floor, window stills, desks and bookcase, some leather bound and older than he was, other with that new-book scent. _Hermione would kill to be here,_ Harry’s dazed mind supplied him. And as if the enormous amount of books wasn’t enough, the floor, and some laid about suitcases were laden with collections of glass jars full of specimens of plants, rocks, and animals that Harry couldn’t hope to name.

 

_Oh, Merlin._

 

Professor Black was less than sympathetic.

 

“So, here,” she pointed to books, “are the books I want you to organize, alphabetically, by author name.” then she pointed towards the jars, “The jars I also want them alphabetically categorized. The plants there,” she pointed to two large dark wood cabinets, “The rocks here,” to the other identical cabinet, “And the animals here,” and the last remaining two cabinets near the fireplace

 

Harry and Draco fought hard to keep from groaning. This was going to take forever. Oh, but Professor Black wasn’t done.

 

“Now, the thing is, the jars aren’t labelled, so I’m afraid that you’ll have to figure out where each jar goes.” With a flourish she summoned four journals, “Now, these have everything you need to know, filled with my personal notes on the matter.” _Well_  , Harry reasoned, _at least we can split the work and never have to talk._ Professor Black however had other plans, “Unfortunately, because these journals are so delicate only one of you can read them and the other will have to sort the jars out.”

 

This meant that if they wanted to leave that room some time before dawn they have to work together. _Oh, come_ **on** _!_ Harry saw no light at the end of the tunnel. The woman was obviously messing with them now, and even Draco seemed to agree with him, if his barely disguised glare was anything to go by.

 

“So, which one of you will take the journals?” Harry was glad that Draco rushed forward. He had no intention of holding and taking a chance of ruining one of the woman’s journals. If Draco did, then there was less of a chance that his Professor would kill him. “Very well. Here, Mister Malfoy.” She handed him the four journals.

 

After that and with a swivel, his Professor left the room and closed the door behind her, but before she did she turned to look at them, “Have fun, boys. And remember,” The smirk on her lips was so insufferable that Harry had to fight not to throw something at it, “No fighting.”

 

The door slammed shut behind her.

 

**Three  hours later….**

 

“That was a bloody nightmare.” Harry heard the blond mutter under his breath as they were both let out of the dark, muggy office, “Absolutely evil.”

 

Harry was loathed to agree with the snobbish boy, but really it **_had_ ** been terrible, it wasn’t just that it was mind-numbingly boring, although it **_had been_ ** that too, it was the fact he and Draco had to work together to even dream of finishing it on time. Which they hadn’t, not really, but professor Black had merely smiled – _Smirked,_ Harry emended himself, _A very familiar smirk_ , Harry finished as his head was filled with images of Draco’s insufferable smile – and had sent them on their way with the promise that tomorrow not only would they finish today’s work, they’d have to do tomorrow’s assignment too.

 

 _Oh_ **joy**.

 

“Well,” Harry pushed the words out, not to leave the situation as awkward as it felt, “see you tomor-…”

 

“Don’t think that just because we spent the night cleaning an office that we’re best friends now, Potter.”

 

 _Jerk,_ Harry cursed him and narrowed his eyes. Without any other word, Harry turned left towards the staircase for the Great Hall, on the corner of his eye he saw Draco doing the same. They were likely going to the same place, dinner had been hours ago, after all.  Before he turned the corner that lead to the staircase he caught a glance of Draco turning back and entering his professor’s office.

 

Harry hmphed, unimpressed by the blatant abuse of privilege that Draco seemed to have now that his aunt was a Professor. Deciding to leave Draco to his devices, Harry kept on his march to the Great Hall, hoping to find something there to eat.

 

Thankfully when he arrived at the Hall, a plate of food was waiting for him. The House Elves must have known that he was coming. Thinking of the creatures, he was reminded of Dobby and how he had hidden the letters from him and had put him a world of trouble with his relatives… He hoped he never saw it again.

 

After being satisfied with his snack, Harry left the Great Hall and started the climb back to his Common Room when he heard a faint whisper coming from behind him.

 

For a moment he thought that a pairing had spoken but as he turned he noticed that all the pairing were asleep. With a careless, but still slightly concerned shrug, Harry continued with his climb back.

 

He took a detour, taking the long way around back to his common room, enjoying the quiet of the Castle. Everyone would be in their common rooms now, doing that day’s homework.

 

When he was passing a deserted hall, near the DADA Classroom, the same whispers rose again, faint, still but more understandable.

 

**“Come…come to me…”**

 

Harry paused abruptly. There was no one else in the corridor. Just him. And then a chill ran down his spine as the whisper uttered its next word.

 

**“Hungry… Kill…”**

 

Harry’s blood ran cold and his head throbbed for a moment. He then turned around hoping against hope that someone was playing a prank on him. The voice spoke again; now, more coherent; now, **_closer_ ** to him; and Harry could finally hear the female tilt to the whispers.

 

**“Come…come to me…let me tear you…Let me rip you… come… come… let me shred you… kill you.”**

 

Harry’s vision swayed as he tried to walk forward, his legs failed beneath him. His head was throbbing, the whispering grew louder and louder until it echoed in his chest, in his head, in the very walls themselves.  **“Come…rip…tear…kill…”** the voice spoke again and again and again, and Harry stumbled as he was unable to maintain his balance.

 

He felt himself start to fall, and as he was bracing himself to crash to the floor a hand grabbed his arm and held him tightly, preventing him from falling. Suddenly the voice mercifully quieted and when Harry looked up he found himself looking at Draco’s blue-grey eyes. Their gazes held for a while, both surprised by Draco’s action.

 

It seemed that they couldn’t escape each other.

 

Draco’s grip on his arm loosened as he let him go and the two boys, both in their own way sensing the awkward moment, glared at each other, and continued on with their way in silence. Walking broodily side-by-side.

 

At a turn in a corridor, a smell overcame him. It was tangy and metallic, entraining in his brain and refusing to leave. It smelled like… **_blood._ **Harry rushed his step, and he heard Draco following close behind. As they completed the turn they found themselves face to face with a grim picture. Madame Norris, hanging from a lamp her body frighteningly still. Harry felt his snack start rumbling in his stomach. His stomach revolted at the smell, but when he looked from the body of Madame Norris to the wall next to her, his throat dropped to his stomach and Harry was surprised he wasn’t seeing his dinner re-emerging.

 

**_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED._ **

**_ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._ **

 

Next to him, Draco was  muffling a cry and his blue-grey eyes were so wide, Harry couldn’t help but think they’d pop out of his skull. And no matter how pale Draco naturally was, now, well, now was he paler than Harry had even thought possible.

 

Pale, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Pale, like he couldn’t face the consequences of his actions.

 

_He did this!_

 

Harry, in a rage quickly grabbed Draco’s collar and pushed him against the wall, snarling in his face, “What did you do?” Harry yelled.

 

“ _ **M**_ ** _E_  **?! What about you?” Draco shouted back, careful not to look at the blood again, “You were the one stumbling in the corridor!”

 

At that, Harry stopped _. The voice! It was a woman’s voice, not Draco’s_  … It wasn’t Draco that had done this. Harry then thought of all the times Draco had done something untoward, which was all the time. _But it didn’t mean that he wasn’t involved. I bet he even helped because to starve off suspicion._

 

Their shouts had clearly attracted attention. And soon enough the voice of Argus Filch echoed in those corridors.

 

“What are you two doing here? What-...” the caretaker suddenly stopped as he looked from them to the hanging cat. The yell that escapes his mouth was nearly unearthly. 

 

 Both Harry and Draco winced and flinched at the sound. Harry stepped closer to the man trying to comfort him, but the man seemed unreachable. 

 

As he got closer, the metallic odour of the blood hit his nose again with a vengeance making him wish that he had skipped his snack altogether. He took another look at the message.

 

Blood smeared walls delivering a message of forbidding quality never did bode well for anyone. Harry quickly looked over at Madame Norris and found her intact, no blood adorned her dust-coloured fur and despite her immobile body, Harry was glad that the animal hadn’t been mangled, if only to spare Mister Filch’s feelings.

 

“Y-You! This is all your fault!” Mister Filch crazily, with shaky fingers pointed at him, and Harry felt his eyes widen, there was nothing he could say. It wasn’t him, as he’d already told, but what he had **_heard_  ** … _Could I have done anything?_ Harry watched as Mister Filch crazed eyes turned to his cat.

 

As the corridor behind him filled with students, Harry stood emotionless. His gaze kept falling from the body to the ground and to Draco – who was still so **_pale_ ** – and back again. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, what to feel. His head swam with what if’s, and Harry felt himself starting to drown as the whispers behind him rose to a massive crescendo. His vision started to blur when twin-shouts pierced the darkness.

 

“HARRY!” Ron and Hermione cut through the crowd and were suddenly by his side. Rapid questions followed and Harry could barely keep up on who was asking; “What happened, mate?”; “Are you okay?”; “Was it Malfoy?”; “Does Professor Black know?”; “Did you see what happened?”.

 

Before Harry could truly respond, Dumbledore and all the Heads of House arrived at the scene.  Harry watched McGonagall and Dumbledore rushing forward to observe the body, while the Flitwick and Sprout tried comforting Filch. Snape, as usual was apart from the commotion. Dumbledore with a quick grasp of the situation turned to the students and with a harsher voice than Harry had ever heard come out of him, quickly handled the situation. 

 

“Everyone return to your dorms, your Heads of House will be there tomorrow morning to speak with you.” Harry could practically feel the collective groan coming out of the students, anguished at having their gossip curtailed and the thought of waking up early. Before Harry, too could turn to leave, Dumbledore spoke again, “ Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy; stay.”

 

Harry traded looks with Ron and Hermione before they separated. His friends smiled at him and Harry could barely breathe such was his gratitude at them.

 

“What happened?” Dumbledore’s voice still held that harsh tonality to it, though it had softened a bit.

 

Harry told his version of what happened, leaving out the detail about the voices. And then it was Draco’s turn to tell his tale, Harry noted omissing his detour to Professor Black’s office.

 

As Draco told his take, Harry’s mind spinned out of control. _My head hurts all day, like it did last year, and now this happens?_ Harry thought, _It can’t be a coincidence. It can’t. Something is wrong and someone is behind this. This isn’t a mere prank, not with the voices I heard. But, who? Who could do this? Who has the power to do something like this?_

 

“Draco!”

 

Harry turned as he heard Professor Black’s voice call to them, and an epiphany hit him. _Oh, it’s her._  Harry frowned at the thought, it seemed to come from deep inside him with a certainty and a surety he never felt before. But… It made sense; every time his scar hurt she was there. The voice had been female. She was powerful beyond belief. It made **_perfect_ ** sense. _Oh, Merlin, it_ **is** _her._

 

Harry took a step back, his professor closed in on him and Draco.

 

“Oh, Draco.” The Professor repeated once she was close enough to them.

 

The name of his Slytherin rival sounded near-frantic on her lips, and as the she approached them Harry had his first glimpse at their familial relationship. The woman didn’t exactly hug Malfoy, but she did stand close to him and ran her grey eyes over his body – much in the same manner he had seen his aunt do with Dudley – and then sighed in relief as she found him unharmed. Draco for his part almost seemed to lean against his aunt, though he made sure not to touch her, keeping a respectful distance but at the same time probably finding comfort in her presence. And Harry, despite himself, swallowed the jealousy that threated to clog his throat, what he wouldn’t give for his family to care like that for him.

 

“Bellatrix.” All heads turned from the newly arrived woman to the Headmaster who had called the woman to attention. As Professor Black turned, he saw her take in for the first time the stone-like body of Mrs. Norris.

 

“Petrified.” Professor Black immediately said as soon as she turned, a little more breathless than Harry would have thought one should be after merely walking over from her nearby office. Harry frowned. _How was she able to tell it was petrified by just looking at it?_ Harry wondered, as he had seen even Professor Dumbledore having to come closer to examine Madame Norris’ ice-cold body. Harry watched his DADA Professor walk closer to the cat before her eyes seemed to shift from it and to the floor and then outside, her eyes catching the spiders that fled the scene, “How odd.” Her voice was soft, careful with the beginning of an idea.

 

Dumbledore cleared his throat, “Any guesses, my dear?”

 

Professor Black seemed to not pay attention to the little nickname that Harry felt, more than knew, that she’d had a distaste for. The black-haired professor seemed enthralled by the prospect of the mystery in front of her, but she had heard the question either way, since she responded to the Headmaster’s question with that same careful tone.

 

“Guesses? Several.” The woman hummed under her breath, her eyes trailing over that little corner of the castle, seemingly trying to commit everything about the crime scene to memory, “But nothing **_certain._  **” She seemed displeased by her lack of theories and sighed before turning to the Headmaster and his entourage, “I’m afraid that this might take a while, Albus. I presume that Pomona will start with the Mandrakes right away,” the Hufflepuff Head puffed indignantly but nodded, Professor Black smirked and then cracked her neck in anticipation, “Well, then I better get to work and hit the books.”

 

Professor Black – and only now did he notice that she was no longer attired in her formal witch dress, but in a more casual, but still highly expensive by the looks of it, pants-shirt combination – turned to leave but not before gesturing her nephew to follow her. And as both she and Draco passed by Dumbledore, in the direction opposite to the Library but in the direction of the Dungeons, Harry couldn’t help but realize with a ping of jealously that Draco’s Aunt was in fact going to escort the Slytherin back to his dorm. Still, before disappearing completely out of view, Professor Black spoke, amusement covering her voice.

 

“I see you were right, Albus, I’ll not lack for entertainment here.” With that and a chuckle, the DADA professor left the sullied corridor with Draco close behind.

 

Professor Dumbledore seemed to wait until the professor was out of the corridor to turn to look at him. Harry felt the Headmaster’s twinkling blue eyes settle on him and though he felt a calm within from the surety that his professor would not hurt him, something alien inside of him rebelled at being under his scrutiny.  Still, Harry couldn’t help but move forward towards Dumbledore as he gestured for him to follow him.

 

“Come, my boy.” The Headmaster’s soothing voice, dissipated any apprehension Harry felt, “Let us walk.”

 

Harry nodded and followed Dumbledore out of that horror corridor, leaving behind a sobbing Filch. This year would be even worse than he thought.

 

The soothing voice of one Albus Dumbledore accompanied him all the way back to his dorm, the Headmaster speaking reassuring words trying to calm him, but Harry couldn’t.

 

He couldn’t shake off Madame Norris’ cold body, the scent of the blood covered walls, the whispers all around and especially – **_especially_ ** – that hissing voice that seemed to come from inside the walls themselves. He wondered if he should bring it up to Dumbledore, but something inside of him told him to leave Dumbledore out of it, for now. Listening to voices wasn’t normal. Not even in the Wizardry World.

 

After a quiet goodnight with Dumbledore and uttering the password, Harry entered the common room. It was quiet, after all it was well past midnight now and everyone had gone to sleep knowing that the gossip mill tomorrow would give them all the details they needed. As he passed the couches spread out across the common room a sight entered his vision that made his heart clench.

 

In two love seats laid the two uncomfortably positioned forms of his two best friends. They had waited for him, of course. He was lucky, lucky, lucky to have them. With as careful touch as he was able Harry brought Hermione back from the world of dreams with a light touch upon her bushy-hair and once she saw him, she sprung up.

 

“Harry!” Hermione whispered his name and threw her arms around him to hug him tightly.

 

With the commotion, light as it had been, his other best friend woke up. After his eyes cleared Ron was up with a leap and soon enough was clinging to both him and Hermione. Harry, in that cocoon of friendship and warmth, felt himself relax for the first time that night.

 

“C’mon, Harry, sit. Sit.” Hermione released him and sat him down on the couch. With a soothing voice, she coaxed the story out of him, “C’mon, tell us what happened.”

 

And Harry did, he told him every single detail that he could remember. Even the punishment with Draco, them separating, then unexpectedly coming together in that last moment before Harry’s world seemed to collapse in front of him. He even told them about his suspicions.

 

“You think someone is behind this, mate?” Ron asked, his blue eyes swollen from being asleep, not minutes ago.

 

Harry nodded, “Professor Black.”

 

“Oh, not again.” Hermione mumbled, “Last year was Snape and-…”

 

“And it turned out to be Quirrell, yes, I know. But I was right, a professor was behind it.”

 

Hermione rolled her pretty brown-eyes, “And what evidence do you have to accuse her, exactly?”

 

“She’s a pureblood.” Hermione’s outraged look told it wasn’t enough reason, “She immediately knew what was going on, with a glance. How could she? Even Dumbledore had to be closer. And when she arrived she was breathless Hermione, like she’d just ran a lot farther than it takes to get from her office to the corridor.”

 

Hermione sighed “Say you’re right; what do you want to do then, Harry?” Hermione asked, exasperated, “How do you plan to get information out of her?”

 

“Out of her? We can’t. Now, her **_nephew_  **…” Harry let that hang in the air.

 

“Absolutely not!”

 

“Why not?!”

 

“Because Harry, she’s not doing this!”

 

“Oh, and how do you know?”

 

“No. How do **_you_ ** know?” Hermione countered Harry, “Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick were whispering near that corridor yesterday, is that enough reason to accuse them? How are you so in tune with somethings and completely clueless about others?” Hermione wondered aloud with a groan.

 

Harry felt his chest tighten, disheartened by Hermione’s obvious – and justified – aggravation with him. His small, bushy-haired friend just wanted to have a normal year; do some light playing around, go to classes, study and get good grades but no, no, she had to be friends with Harry Freaking Potter. _You don’t deserve a friend like me. I’m sorry, Hermione, no matter how annoying you are sometimes, you do need better friends. But I need to see this through. I need to know why I_ **feel** _the way I do when I see her._

 

Ron however was the one who answered Hermione, since Harry was lost in his own thoughts and truly wouldn’t be able to put it into words. _Ron really is a godsend sometimes._

 

“Harry pays attention to the things that can hurt him, ‘Mione. He doesn’t care about what Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick were doing talking in whispers near the door to the labs because he trusts them to have the students first.” Ron grumbled under his breath, “Black is Malfoy’s Aunt. If there is someone out there that is doing this, then it is her.”

 

Not only that, but Harry had not forgotten Mister Borgin’s implication. Professor Black was an avid client of the dark arts store. Would it be so strange to believe that she could be the one behind this? He told Hermione as much as she scoffed.

 

“It still doesn’t make any sense!” She insisted much to his chagrin. And he had to counter.

 

“It **_does_  ** make sense!” He tried again, careful to give no quarter but not to speak loudly enough to attract any attention, “Why does is happening now then?”

 

“Harry,” Hermione’s careful tone did nothing but set him even more on edge, “Just because Professor Quirrell was after you, it doesn’t mean that every Professor is. You know that right?”

 

“It was **_Voldemort_  ** , Hermione. Voldemort was after me. And she’s a **_pureblood_  **! She’s Malfoy’s aunt! If there is anyone who’s doing this, then it’s her.”

 

Hermione’s brown eyes narrowed at him, cross with the way Harry had put his foot down. Harry winced and set an apologetic look at Hermione, aware that he had been a little too harsh to the point of being rude. Thankfully, Hermione accepted the apology with a nod and a warning look at him.

 

Ron mused aloud, interrupting the silent, tense moment, “It **_is_ **weird that it happened after your fight with Malfoy.”

 

And Harry could kiss his ginger-haired friend, not only because he was supporting him but because Ron was trustingly unaware of the tense exchange that had transpired between Harry and Hermione, and so when he had spoken there was no hint of the tension between the three of them.

 

With a deep breath Harry revealed his last piece of evidence and whispered it quietly “My scar hurts when she’s around.”

 

“What?!” Hermione and Ron both echoed, surprised by the revelation. And while Ron’s eyes now narrowed hostilely at the revelation it was Hermione that issued a soft, apologetic, “Oh, Harry…” with a sympathetic look

 

Harry ignored the pitying look, “She **_must_ **know something more.” Hermione nodded at him, his revelation quickly convincing her that something was amiss with their new professor.

 

“And if she doesn’t, then her nephew would.” Ron was resolute.

 

“Exactly!” Harry excitedly exclaimed. “We need to find a way to get Malfoy to talk.”

 

Hermione had a glint in her eyes as an idea overcame her, “I think I have an idea, but it’s going to take about two months.”

 

Harry’s eyes narrowed, it wasn’t ideal, but since he had no other idea it would have to do. He clenched his jaw and his eyes closed, intimately aware of what his obstinance could wrought. Still, he needed this. He needed to know.

 

“Well, we’ll just have to deal with it.” Harry reasoned and then asked Hermione a plea in his eyes, “Just do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry, I know I said 3-3 weeks but life is bitch. I’d like to say I’ll be able to keep the schedule but I’d be lying, I’ll try as hard as I can but it might be unfeasible.
> 
> Now onto better things… how did you like it? Everyone following along?
> 
> Next Time: Bella POV with certain insights on the Silver Trio.


	7. Battles of Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quidditch matches, dueling clubs, petrified students and estate management, Bellatrix deal with it all in this very special episode of 'Making Bellatrix Life a Living Hell' brought to you by yours truly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the delay, but a Hunger Games AU from an anon got my attention for a long time. I know it’s a little assholeish but I needed to get that fic out of my head or else I wouldn’t be able to finish this as I wanted. As it is, the other is mostly all written and I’ll be alternating updates.

Dark clouds filled the skies all around the grounds and a wind swept across the dark trees, ripping leaves off the canopies of their branches. A thick fog enclosed the surrounding woods, creating the illusion of mystery around the massive Estate carved deep into the marble-rich complex of a magically hidden mountain deep in the Ancient Duncliffe Woods.

 

The Estate’s Manor was magnificent and barely managed not to appear pretentious due to its Greek-inspired influences; walls of old white marble that had seen better days, floors made in intricate mosaic depicting several caricatures of battles of old. The building stood proud and regal on the same spot it had been for a thousand years. Thick, green vines covered a large part of the facade and the Corinthian Columns that adorned the Manor from the first to the second floor and twisted around the large salient verandas. Some had even broken through the windows in the second floor, giving the place an eerie feel of abandonment.

 

Deeper into the Estate, the once beautiful and well-maintained gardens which had been full of flowers of all colours, trimmed bushes, and trees upon trees of pomegranates, were now a withering green and overgrown and repopulated with every kind of magical plant imaginable. The marble Greek-style gazebo with six standing maidens supporting the circular ornate iron vault, which had once prominently featured in Druella Black’s garden parties was ruined and crumbling as if thousands of years had passed since its last use instead of a couple of decades.

 

Bellatrix Black, back in England after almost a decade of living in Bulgaria, was trying to get her family’s Manor back in order. It was easier said than done since nothing was cooperating with her. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like she could get anyone to do the work for her, the blood magic and the wards on the Estate prevented anyone but Black-blooded wizard to use magic or to even enter the premises without express authorization.

 

Bellatrix had wanted to start her overhaul **_inside_** the house, but the vines had held on thick and denied her entrance, and while she had once known the house like the back of her hand, she hadn’t actually been **_on_** the grounds since she was 23, an astounding 18 years ago. With no other option but try to work the problem from outside in, she had started with the greenhouses.

 

She had never had much of a green thumb, but hell, the very **_soil_** seemed to be against her. She fixed one greenhouse in the morning and by the afternoon it was ruined again. **_Something_** was wrong and for a moment Bellatrix thought that her mother had cursed the land against her, but they couldn’t have, she wasn’t really a Black and had no  control over the grounds, after all. As it was, she was once again fixing up the greenhouse on the South part of the Estate and once again it wasn’t going well.

 

Bellatrix cursed loudly as her foot caught on a snag on the ground. A purple thorny weed – _Mircusi_ , used for a particularly deadly poison – had caught her boot when she tried getting from one side of the ruined greenhouse to the other. She cursed louder still when, in trying to force her way out, it did nothing but tighten the hold the freaking weed had on her.

 

Exasperated, and quite frankly seething, she took a deep breath and lowered herself to the ground to try to untangle her boots from the meddlesome weed. Looking at it now she knew she’d have to buy another pair soon, the thorns of the weed had ruined these ones.  After some absurdly heavy effort, she finally managed to snag her foot away, the impulse made her loose balance and fall back into a puddle of dirty rainwater.

 

“Ugh!” Bellatrix didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if her mother had heard the undignified yell that came out of her mouth, “Fuck this place!”

 

 ** _BOOM!_  **A crack of lightning and the sound of shattering and falling glass had her instinctively rolling out of the way. Breathing heavily Bellatrix lifted her head and saw a large piece of glass piercing the exact spot she had been laying on. Had she not moved; it would have impaled her.

 

Bellatrix registered what had happened with a concerned look on her face. It was as if her yell of contention had spurred it; the very ground shaken, and a piece of the greenhouse’s glass ceiling fell almost directly on her. Bellatrix’s father had always told her that the grounds they had built their Ancestral Home on was alive, theming with intelligence and life. Out of all her father’s teachings, that one had been the one she had always been sceptical of. Not anymore, though.

 

It was the fifth **_accident_** that happened that week alone. She was starting to **_really_** believe that the Estate itself was cross with her.

 

“Alright, alright.” She groaned and then, in a gesture that left her feeling very silly, patted the soil of the greenhouse soothingly, “I’m sorry I yelled.” The ground shook again as lighting struck, but less violently this time. Reassured and yet still a little sceptic she continued, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here in so long.” Now, the ground rumbled soothingly.

 

Well, then.

 

Still disbelieving, she patted the floor one last time before rising from the floor. As she did so and the wet clothes clung to her, she was glad she was wearing a simple pair of trousers and a blouse instead of her much preferred dresses and heels which were too impractical to be laying in the mud and much more likely to snag on another weed.

 

After shrugging off a couple of leaves off her knees, she lifted her gaze and nearly had a coronary. Instead of the ruined wreck it had been a couple of minutes ago, the changes she had made a month ago when she first started fixing the Estate were back in place.

 

“Oh.”  Eloquence seemed to escape her, “I see.”

 

Her father’s sentimentality and creed for their family did have a point after all.   

 

The glass building was in perfect shape once again, standing proudly on the Southern side of the Estate. Sweet-smelling herbs were now flowering inside the restored greenhouse, regardless of weather or season. Outside, old oak trees that Bellatrix never remembered looking that old, sprung back to life with vivacious brown wood replacing the dead ashen brown from before, and the scent of it entering her nose. Flowers of every colour bloomed for a second before wilting and tucking themselves into the ground to grow next spring… Everything that had seemed so dead a few minutes ago seemed to teem with life once more.

 

Breathless, Bellatrix looked at her Estate and found herself renewed with a new sense of purpose, maybe now things would go her way. As it was, for today, she merely took the Estate’s peace offering and with a pat against the greenhouse’s – now perfect – glass side panel she walked all the way back to the edge of the Estate, making sure to every-so-often pat surfaces or trees she passed by.

 

Tomorrow she’d be back to try to finally get this project on track. After all, she only had until the Summer to complete the house itself, the rest could wait.

 

When she finally reached the edge of the property, she **Apparated** off to Hogsmeade and then headed straight to Hogshead, with a stiff nod towards Rosmerta she started quickly walking to the floo spot in the establishment; the **Apparition** wards were up ever since the students had arrived and she couldn’t just pop into the castle like she had done during her first day. A handful of the green dust and an offensive amount of time later she was standing in her office. 

 

Quickly looking at the clock in her wall, Bellatrix saw she still had about half-an-hour until she had to be somewhere else, so she decided to unwind with a glass of her rapidly draining bottle of firewhiskey. Gods, ever since she started this job the bottle was getting progressively emptier.

 

After the stiff drink she went into her bedroom, painted a dark blue, and then off into the adjacent bathroom to take off her wet clothes, slip into the bath and change into something she was more used to. As the hot water of the bath hit her back, a groan of pleasure escaped her throat. She only got a few moments of enjoying the hot water before the situation she found herself in assaulted her again.

 

It had been two weeks since the incident with the bloody creature that Filch insisted on calling a ‘cat’ and a couple of terrible things had happened; first, the mandrakes were being a bunch of procrastinating arseholes and were nowhere near being ready; second, the whole damn school was in a state of panic; third, and more importantly according to most of the school, the first Quidditch Match of the Year was to set place today much to Bellatrix chagrin.

 

Gods almighty there was nothing Bellatrix Black hated more than Quidditch matches… They were long, boring, and absolutely mind-numbing. And yet, without fail, every single year the school had to pay homage to the stupid sport. And while yes, sure, she had dated a few famous Quidditch players in her day, if only to starve off the boredom, it didn’t make her like the sport much more. In fact, it made her absolute abhor the godsdamned game.

 

Still, today was her nephew’s first game; even if she wanted to skip the **_festivities_** – something she had been told she was not **_allowed_** to do, making her wonder what exactly the perks of were of being a professor – she wouldn’t. If only for Draco. With that thought on her head she rose from her bath and donned on a dark green – bordering on black – dress that fell down to her feet.

 

She got out of her quarters and contemplated going to meet with Draco, but ultimately decided against it; the boy was either stressed enough without her being there, or he was calm and she didn’t want to ruin it. In the end, she started walking towards the Quidditch pitch and on the way found the Hufflepuff Head also reluctantly making the same path.  She quickened her step, so she was walking side-by-side with Sprout.

 

They walked in silence for a minute or so, until Bellatrix ventured asking.

 

“So, the mandrakes…”

 

“I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you now they aren’t ready!” The tone was a little testy which surprised Bellatrix, since Pomona was always so pleasant. The look on her face must have told Pomona that, and the portly woman sighed, “I’m sorry, Bellatrix, this has been a draining week.”

 

“At the risk of setting you off again…” Bellatrix didn’t elaborate further.

 

“No, it isn’t the mandrakes.” The woman managed a chuckle, her kind eyes smiling at Bellatrix, “There was an issue with one of my students, nothing to worry about. Not when a game of this calibre is about to start!”

 

Bellatrix managed a smile but, seeing as Pomona was looking at her a little worried, she knew that her smile wasn’t very reassuring. Pomona, as they were arriving to pitch, gently grabbed her arm and pulled her aside as outsiders – mostly parents – started passing by to come and see the game.

 

“What’s happened, you don’t seem fine, dear…”

 

The Hufflepuff’s perfume entered her nose, and the touch of pomegranate made her remember her family’s garden and how she used to sneak there to escape some of her family’s parties and to get some time alone. Well, mostly alone, **_he_** had joined once or twice. Those were good memories, the very few not tainted by the War.

 

“Is it because Draco is playing?” Pomona’s comforting tone grated at her ears, “He’ll be fine. We regulate the game much more now.”

 

That could mean anything because, in her time, the only ‘regulation’ the professors did was make sure no broom was enchanted, and that was it; everything apart from that was apparently fair game. Needless to say, she had spent many a night in the infirmary watching over Andromeda while she healed from whatever injury being a Chaser caused her.

 

Nevertheless, despite her scepticism at the ‘new’ regulations, she wasn’t worried about her nephew. Draco was a proficient flyer and if she had to guess, Draco hadn’t made the Quidditch team last year simply because school rules forbid it for him to try out. Or **_supposed_** to be forbidden at least, she spared a glance at Minerva McGonagall who was now just passing by to take her seat.

 

No, what had her worried was the bloody Mandrakes and her Estate, but she really didn’t want to share that. So, Bellatrix merely forced a smile at her former Herbology Professor.

 

“Thank you, Pomona, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

 

With that both she and Pomona walked towards the stairs that would lead them to the stands where they would have to watch the game with the other professor and the members of the Board, which meant that Lucius would be there.

 

She could hear the board members murmuring to each other, not about her thankfully, she had had more than enough fame in her early twenties to last her fifty lifetimes, and any other year her becoming a professor would be all the Board could talk about. But this year, with the petrified kitten, she was mostly shielded from the spotlight. There was some talk about her investigation, but it was mostly the students talking.

 

Still, she wasn’t the only one getting questions, last week the students had somehow made Binns tell the History behind the so-called Chamber of Secrets and the whole damn school was up in arms about it. Now, Bellatrix had actually always liked the legend of the Chamber of Secrets, it had been something that she and her Housemates had used to tease other Houses with. The importance of the Slytherin bloodline, the importance of the man itself, even after all these years. But it was absolute **_bullshit_** to blame this incident on a fucking legend.

 

There were many, many, **_many_** reasons for what had happened, uncountable different magical reasons: gorgon’s blood, some powder or another, a little ancient toy called _Medusa’s mirror_ that had been around in the 1630s which had been a sensation that had caused its fair share of trouble in Greece petrifying an entire village once even, a little **Pepper-Up** potion dosed excessively with petrified Acacia was a powerful cocktail that instantly petrified its victim. There was no need to jump to conclusions, especially not about some stupid Chamber.

 

But more than the different magical reasons, was the fact that it was **_Filch’s_** cat that had been petrified. The man and the cat had been asking for a prank this size since Bellatrix had been in school, there was no reason to suspect that this **_hadn’t_** been a prank gone wrong, and that the perpetrators had simply been too scared to say something. 

 

She arrived at the top of the stand and was honestly unsurprised to find Lucius at the mouth of the door as if waiting for her. Which he probably was… Asshole. They exchanged a charged look, full of contempt and disdain. He didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him. He thought her influence on her sister was ruining his marriage; she thought his whoring around was the main cause of said ruining; oh, he didn’t dare **_act_** on it, Narcissa would cut off his balls before he managed but it didn’t mean that he didn’t **_want_** to. 

 

A tall, broad, blue-eyed man from the Board seemed to notice them and was unlike the others was brave enough to speak up, his head slightly bowed in greeting, “Lady Black.”

 

It took her but a moment to place the face, with a tight smile at Lucius she turned to look at the man who had spoken and managed a proper smile, “Thaddeus, how are you?”

 

Encouraged, Thaddeus Pucey walked forward and kissed her hand, while the men behind them finally reassured that she wouldn’t eat them upon a mere word from them, all rushed forward muttering ‘Lady Black’ and making a show of taking her hand. She noticed from the corner of her eye, most of the professors looking at her with some degree of amusement in their eyes, while Lucius head looked ready to explode. When everyone in the board had greeted her and all that was left was Lucius, he didn’t snarl but issued an antagonistic snort.

 

“Bellatrix.”

 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Bellatrix that rose to challenge Lucius’ petty little slight. Bellatrix was as surprised as everyone when McGonagall was the one who, without even dignifying Lucius with a head turned towards his direction, corrected his use of her given name, instead of her title.

 

“I think you mean Lady Black.”  The sharp, no-nonsense tone took them all back to when McGonagall had been their teacher, clear from the way Lucius flinched. When no one else spoke, Minerva prompted Lucius further, “Well, Mister Malfoy?”

 

To say that the Gryffindor Head should have addressed him as ‘Lord Malfoy’ would be useless, and Lucius seemed to know it as he merely limited himself to look at McGonagall a look in his eyes that would intimidate a lesser man. McGonagall, however, didn’t even give him the esteem of looking in his direction.

 

“… Lady Black.” Through gritted teeth, and it never sounded so sweet.

 

Bellatrix smirked at him and watched as Lucius scoffed and walked up the stands to sit beside Severus Snape. Of course, those two would sit together, they were like two peas in a pod: despicable, corrupt and utterly slimy. Bellatrix scoffed at them one last time and moved to sit down besides Minerva.

 

Before she completely settled, she muttered quietly, “I could have handled it.” That left a bad taste in her mouth, so she added even more quietly, “Thank you.”

 

Minerva eyed her and huffed, “You’re a professor here, now.”

 

“So, it’s us versus them, then.” Bellatrix said, “I wonder if you’d the same thing for Snivellus?”

 

Minerva’s less than impressed stare gave her nothing and Bellatrix grinned. There was very little she and Minerva agreed on, but there had always been a common… scepticism…that they shared when it came to Snape’s sudden turn during the First War. Good to know she wasn’t the only one hang up on it. 

 

Rolanda Hooch’s voice suddenly boomed across the scaled down stadium, calling forth the players front and centre. She clapped with the rest of the people when the players entered the stadium, and few seconds late after the coach read the exact same rules it had been in her time, she threw the Quaffle in the air and the game began.

 

Soon enough the whole crowd was cheering and jeering with the sport. Bellatrix tried sneakily read the book she had brought along but with Minerva’s elbowing both her and the announcer – Lee Jordan, she wanted to say, but she didn’t know the name of every student – she didn’t have a prayer of concentrating on the words. Huffing quietly, she pocketed her book and started paying attention.

 

The Slytherin team she knew well; she had seen each of them playing during the scarce pureblood parties they still invited her to. And from the Gryffindors there wasn’t much novelty; the Captain – Wood, drafted for a professional team as soon as he finished his Seventh Year - was sufficiently adequate for that, the Weasley twins had clearly inherited their uncles’ proficiency and connection – Fabian and Gideon would be proud – and she was glad to see that there were quite a lot of girls playing,

  

Her gaze then settled on the Potter boy – who was almost as good as his father had been – as he chased after the Snitch, followed closely by her nephew, and she wondered what was going through his head.

Bellatrix let her gaze wonder as she pondered on the Potter boy, he was eyeing her much more carefully these days, ever since that three-day exhausting punishment she had doled out on him and her nephew. His discern could be because she was a Slytherin, and she had noticed that the boy – not unlike his father when he was young – was somewhat cynical towards the Silver-and-Green House. Not that she could entirely blame him; between Snape, Lucius, her nephew and **_him_** , the boy hadn’t really met any decent member of her House.

 

“What the hell?” Bellatrix turned sharply when she heard Minerva swear next to her. Seeing her frown towards the field, she quickly followed her gaze and saw Baby Potter struggling on top the broom as a Bludger flew by way to close to him. He was shaking and swerving around madly, trying to escape it. Bellatrix herself pulled a face, having been sure from the rumours that Baby Potter was a good flyer. A quick turn from the boy and she saw her nephew struggling in the same manner with another Bludger.

 

Bellatrix frowned, unsure of what exactly was happening; Draco was a more than an able flyer and he was struggling to stay afloat during this fair weather. Sneaking a look at McGonagall, who was watching the Potter boy with the same bafflement she felt, she knew that something weird was going on.

 

Before she could say anything, a sharp yell stood out against the crowd, and when she looked back at the game, Baby Potter had lost complete control over his broom and was dropping to ground.  When the boy hit the floor Bellatrix could almost swear, she had heard something crack, even if she was way too far to hear anything but the collective ‘oof’ of the crowd reacting to the boy crashing to the ground.

 

Off to the side, Draco was precariously hovering above the pit, once the Potter boy hit the floor, the Bludger abruptly went to Draco and losing his balance, he fell deep into the pit surrounding the pitch.

 

She was up in a second as was every professor, stunned by the turn of events. Then, frenzied movements as every professor moved to exit the stand against the howling wind. An elbow to her side made her back hit the wooden stands just as Sprout’s pomegranate perfume hit her nose, a flash memory of a moment long pass hit her with a force…

 

* * *

_Her back hit the column behind her as he pushed her into the sacred sanctuary of her mother’s garden and promptly buried his face in her neck, lips grazing her pulse. The white column bore witness to the passionate display, the fragrant flowers of her mother’s gardens seemed to all erupt under their embrace, the statue of Aphrodite herself, perched on a pedestal, seemed to smile smugly at her behind his back._

_Her head flew backward, hitting the column and making a mighty ruckus when his hand climbed to her thigh. He didn’t stop to see if she was okay. Not that she wanted him to, it might give her a reason to stop this madness._

_Off to her side the pomegranate tree that blossomed in the heart of the garden, fell one of its yields, the scent of the ruby red fruit entered her nose just as he bit her neck and her hands flew to his hair and-…_

* * *

 

A heavy gasp and Bellatrix returned to herself, her eyes opened wide as she escaped the split-second of memories induced by her crash with the wall. Her heart was racing, the echo of it pounding in her ears rending her speechless and deaf under the thundering noise.

_Gods,_ Bellatrix leaned back against the wall, trying to calm herself, to set her blood back from sizzling to a smooth cold temperature. _Oh, bloody hell,_ her hand rose to her chest trying to still her frantically rising and falling torso, _Shit, now is not the time!_ With a final groan she pushed herself off the wall, _Also where the hell is_ **that,** _when I’m alone at night and need a little pick-me-up._  

This time she dodged the frenzied winds and howling professors that had given in to panic and was careful not to bump into Sprout again should her perfume trigger anymore memories. Rushing down fast, she was vaguely aware of having Lucius but a pace behind her. While most made a beeline to Baby Potter; she, Lucius and Snape made away to the pit around the pitch.

 

When they got close to where Draco was, a wail like a wounded animal shook itself inside their heads. Despite herself, Bellatrix relaxed. Wailing mean that the boy was still breathing, that he was in pain, yes, but not dead. She sagged a little with relief; she had lost too many people in the last War to add more to the list, especially her nephew.

 

When they reached Draco, the wailing was almost unbearable. Lucius, pale and sweating had stayed behind, emptying his stomach because of his boy’s heart wrenching cries, Snape was walking tentatively behind her and Bellatrix scoffed, _Men really are completely useless sometimes._ Charging ahead Bellatrix suddenly wished she had as little courage as the other two.

 

Sprawled out the dirty sand that filled the pit was Draco; bloodied limbs, pained tears running down his face, and mouth open but with no real sound came out, he tried sobbing, but he couldn’t. One of Draco’s bloodied hands cradled his face and upon closer inspection Bellatrix was unsurprised to realize that his jaw was broken, blood rippled out of the open wound making him gargle on it.

 

The thought that if he had fallen a little harder or at a different angle and instead of his jaw it would have been his neck almost threatened to paralyze her. But steeling herself, Bellatrix walked forward and knelt besides Draco. Before her nephew could take another excruciating breath, Bellatrix **stupefied** him. When Draco slumped, finally free of his torment, she stacked the blood pouring out of his jaw with a spell and lifted him up.

 

As she quickly passed a pale Snape and a still retching Lucius, who upon seeing his boy bent over again, Bellatrix cursed the person who invented this bloody game twice over. _There are not enough words in every language I know that can express how much I hate this fucking game._

 

* * *

 “I’m having a serious case of _déjà vu_.” Bellatrix scolded, a reproachful tone to her voice, head in her hands, “This is exactly what I was doing every other weekend when Meda was out trying to prove some bullshit by playing this stupid game.”

 

“Noo s’tpd.” Draco’s broken jaw was taking a little longer than Baby Potter’s broken limbs.

 

Bellatrix glared at Draco, “ ** _You_** , shut **_up_**. You’re not supposed to be talking because your godsdamned **_jaw_** is broken, because you were playing that **_STUPID GAME_**!” Her voice might have boarded on the hysterical at the end, there. Bellatrix groaned and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, “Oh Gods, if Cissa finds out about this I’m **_dead_**.”

 

“You and me, both.” On the other side of Draco’s bed was Lucius, looking a little paler than usual. He had caught the scare of a lifetime, but was still holding himself distant and cold, “I was the one who insisted he join.”

 

“So, this is all your fault?!” she almost screeched but then scoffed incredulously, “Why am I surprised? I should have known you’d be the one to put this stupid idea in his head!” Draco looked poised to open his mouth but Bellatrix’ glare made him halt his movement, “For Gods’ sake, why the hell would you even suggest it?”

 

“He’s good with a broom!” Lucius sneered at her, speaking through his teeth, “And he might actually do something to be proud of.”

 

Bellatrix didn’t need to look at Draco to see his crestfallen face at his father’s criticism. Not that she couldn’t see where Lucius was coming from. Draco was bright, but if he failed one test he easily fell behind on his classes. He was a good flyer, but he let his temper get in the way. He was gallant and chivalrous, but he let his father’s influence him more than he should.  Lucius was right, Draco could do much better, but he would not be the man Lucius wanted, not if Bellatrix could help it.

 

“Lucius!” Bellatrix admonished, “For heaven’s sake, get a grip, man. He’s doing fine!”

 

Lucius narrowed his blue eyes at her, “He is a Malfoy; he should be doing great!”

 

“He’s in his **_Second_** Year, Lucius!” Bellatrix reminded the man, “He is still young and competing in a House that has the likes of Marcus Flint – who has been drafted by a major Quidditch Team – and Adrian Pucey – who has been personally asked by Amelia Bones to be in the MLE the second he finishes Seventh Year. Give him time, Lucius, he’s **_young._** ”

 

“He is a disappointment.”

 

Even if she wanted, she could not have unheard the whimper that Draco let out. That was the last straw, she had almost been waiting for this, it was how the script always went; Draco did something slightly less than perfect and Lucius complained and nagged and tore Draco down. Narcissa was too much in love with Lucius to ever challenge him outright, but Bellatrix… Well, she was not about to let Lucius do this to Draco **_again_**.

 

She rose to full height, and spoke with a cold voice, “I think you better leave.”  

 

Lucius scowled at her, but he too rose and made a move to leave, “I was about to, anyway. I have a meet with-…” Lucius halted when Bellatrix gripped his arm tightly, the glare on her face making him try to recoil from her but her grip was tight.

 

“That boy over there is your **_son_** , Lucius. Your **_only_** son. You better remember that before it’s too late.”

 

Her brother-in-law merely raised an eyebrow, unconcerned by her warning, and turned to go to whatever meeting had him leaving his son after a fall like that. She cursed at him; wondering how the hell did he get off in being so cold to his son. Hell, her parents whenever Andromeda had injured herself always stayed the night or even took her home for the rest of the weekend, taking Bellatrix and Narcissa along to spend some time together.

 

She was just about to turn to Draco to ask if he wanted her to call Narcissa when steps coming from the corridor stalled her words.

 

“DRACO!” Twin voices shouted and came on running, Blaise and Pansy came running into the infirmary, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe not far behind them. Bellatrix got away from the bed when the students arrived, Blaise practically jumping up on the bed to get close to Draco and Pansy grabbing the boy’s hand almost immediately, and they were off rattling on about how it had been so ‘awesome’ and ‘you will have a scar!’…  

 

An image, as painful as it could be, made its way to the front of her mind; Andromeda in the same position as Draco, Bellatrix running over to grab her hand, Narcissa jumping up the bed and the footsteps of her younger cousins who had come to watch the game with their parents running behind them.

 

Bellatrix let them have their peace and walked over to where Baby Potter was. His friends had already been in, and he was alone now. No parents, no family, no godfather – _Gods, does he even know about Sirius?_ –  and Bellatrix hopped over so he wouldn’t be alone. The boy was looking up at the celling, his two arms and one of his legs were broken, but mending. He would still need to spend the night, if only for the excess stress his body had been under. Walking over to him, Bellatrix waved her hand over his face.

 

“Mister Potter, may I?”

 

The boy nodded, his face turning to see her sitting in the chair beside his bed. The chair that would be occupied by one of his parents had the War been kinder to him.

 

“May I ask… What happened out there?”

 

“I dunno…” He mumbled, the potions to ease him to sleep clearly making effect, “One moment I was fine, the next the Bludger was coming towards me and I lost control.”

 

“I see.” She didn’t. It made no sense, but the boy knew nothing about the out-of-control Bludgers, “And how are the arms, Mister Potter? And the leg?”

              

“Better,” he coughed, his voice dream-like, “It was like magic.”

 

Bellatrix snorted, the poor kid was high off his mind, “It was indeed, Mister Potter. Rest, now. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

 

“I do?” He asked, all drowsy and drunk-like, “Doing what?”

 

“Class with me, Mister Potter.” She smirked when she saw him smile, “It will be a good one.”

 

“Please, not another test!” he whined, “Those are terrible, even ‘Mione complains.”

 

“I make no promises.” She heard him groan, “But I’ll make sure to make it an easy one.”

 

“Okay. Good.” He exhaled and fell into sleep.

 

Bellatrix smiled and got up from the chair and walked back to where her nephew was. With a quick gesture, she called over Blaise. With a quick word with him and him and the other Slytherins were leaving the Infirmary. She sat back in the chair next to her nephew.

 

“Auntie, you don’t have to stay.” He could speak much better now it was still slurred, but at least the flesh was all back together and working well. The potions were working

 

Bellatrix smiled at her nephew, and promised him, “I’ll stay only for a while Draco, the potion Poppy gave you is quite strong. Just until you fall asleep.”

 

“Okay.” Draco, and wrangled his hand on his sheets, “But you don’t have to stay, I mean…”

 

“I want to, Draco. I’m quite used to it, your Aunt Andromeda used to pull these stunts on me all the time… Madame Pomfrey is more than used to have me here watching over.” Draco nodded, his silky clean blond hair bobbing along with his slurred movements. It wouldn’t be long until the boy fell asleep after the tiring day he had. Turning back to her book, she was unsurprised to hear her nephew’s soft snores not even 20 minutes later.

 

Lifting her gaze from her book, she took him in. On his face was a thin, barely noticeable scar that ran along his jawline, but he was already much better. Her sister would murder her for allowing her son to get hurt, but other than that there would be no consequences. She sat in the chair for a while, her gaze drifting from her book to the calm breathing of her nephew… Soon enough, she too fell asleep.

 

She woke up to the sound of the sound of whispers coming from Baby Potter’s bed. Rubbing the sleep off her eyes, she got up and walked over to where the boy was supposed to be sleeping. When she turned the drape, she found him sitting up starring to end of his bed, an angry and confused look in his face.

 

“Nightmares, Potter?” She asked, “Or are you having one of those elusive migraines?”

 

Poor boy had barely had time to wake up from his sleep and looked at her a little confused, “… Migraines?”

 

Bellatrix managed a snort, “Word of advice, Mister Potter, if you’re going to lie, make sure to at least remember who you lied to.”

 

“Oh!” the boy looked at her sheepishly, “I haven’t had one in a long time, Professor, that’s why…”

 

“Spare me more lies, Mister Potter. I didn’t buy it the first time; I’m not buying it now.” Bellatrix sighed, “Just… If it becomes too much, you should speak with someone. Your Head of House is more than willing to help you… Your friends, even.”

 

“I promise, Professor. Thank you.” The boy nodded, his messy jet-black hair sticking out on all ends and his green eyes drowsy behind the round glasses.

 

“Good. Now, back to sleep.” Bellatrix instructed, “I won’t accept any excuse for your tardiness to my class on Monday, Mister Potter.”

 

She watched to boy tuck himself in and closed the drape behind her. With a sigh, she went back to her chair and picked up her book, before she could move to go back to her office, she was startled when the doors burst open and Minerva, Poppy and Albus walked in the Infirmary, a stone cold body of one student between them; things had just become infinitely more complicated.

 

All her theories of this being a one-time attack just left through the same doors that boy’s body had come in. She listened with one ear as they talked about what it meant that, whatever it was, it had petrified a student. A ** _student_** right under their watch. Dumbledore taking sight of her grabbed her and gently led her away from Draco’s bed past the bed the tiny student was frozen on.

 

They all left the infirmary leaving the stone-cold body of little Colin Creevey on the bed, under the watchful eye of Madame Pomfrey.

 

“Well, this is a fucking disaster.”

 

“Bellatrix! Language!” Minerva said a little too loudly.

 

“You’re right!” She yelled back at McGonagall, sarcastically, “We wouldn’t want the **stone** ears of the boy to hear any bad language.” Bellatrix ran her trembling hands over her thick black hair, “Fuck, I want another drink.”

 

Minerva gasped, “Are you **_drunk_**?” 

 

“Gods, I **_wish_.**” Bellatrix snorted.

 

“Albus!” The yell coming out of McGonagall’s mouth would be comical if it didn’t grate on her ears.

 

To his credit the Headmaster didn’t even look at Minerva and merely backed her up.

 

“Minerva, I’m sure Miss Black would not get drunk on the school premises.” She had done little else during the weekends in her 7th Year, but he didn’t need to know **_that_**. Albus then rose his blasted twinkling blue eye and shared a conspiratorial wink with her, telling her that he probably knew anyway, “Besides a stiff drink wouldn’t exactly go amiss right now.”

 

While Minerva was torn between nagging and sputtering, Bellatrix snorted and her eyebrows wiggled with a mocking tone, done in part to set off McGonagall again as she presented Albus with a peace offering.

 

“I have a bottle of firewhiskey you can have.” 

 

Minerva scoffed, before Albus couldn’t say anything, “How generous.”

 

“I’d offer you one too, but I know you have your own stash.” A wink might have made its way to her face, and Bellatrix was glad to see the Gryffindor Head sputtering a bit.

 

“How dare you?!”

 

Without missing a beat, Bellatrix said, “Second shelf, the book ‘A small look into the metamorphosis of nanomolecules’.” The blush on McGonagall’s face was glorious, and Bellatrix couldn’t resist teasing further, “A dry book to hide a dry whiskey. Clever.”

 

Minerva’s gaping mouth and wide eyes and honest to Gods shocked expression, was worth the glare and the reprimand that was about to come her way.

 

“It was **_you_**. You stole my bottle!” Minerva’s furious sea-green eyes bored into Bellatrix’s and then narrowed at her as she remembered the rest of the history, “And you framed Prewet twins! They missed Quidditch matches for a **_year_**.”

 

Dumbledore was wisely quiet, Bellatrix noted, but the twinkle in his eyes seemed to almost dance in amusement. Let it never be said that the man couldn’t appreciate a joke or a well-executed prank.

 

“And thank Merlin for that.” Bellatrix said with a veritable smug smile on her face, “They were far too good for us to have won the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup as effortlessly as we did that year.”

 

Minerva’s sea-green glare was a thing of beauty, and yet, Bellatrix could feel a shiver of fear run down her spine at it. And while she wasn’t afraid, per say, there was a healthy dose of respect for the Gryffindor Head. So much so that her own grin might have lost a bit of its lustre and she could almost feel herself gulping loudly as Minerva issued a threat that seemed designed to make her paranoid to her every move.

 

“I’ll get you for that, Bellatrix.”

 

Bellatrix managed a smile, her memory flashing with all the – honestly, **_brilliant_** – manipulation and movements that Minerva had done for and to the Order during the First War. Not to mention the countless times the woman had issued punishments for her and her Housemates for schemes that no other professor would have ever been able to even catch them on.

 

Just as she realized that it might not have been a good idea to start a war with Minerva McGonagall on what was essentially her own turf, the Transfiguration Professor stopped suddenly. Bellatrix watched almost uncomprehending as Minerva opened the door to her quarters. Bellatrix had been so distracted, so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t realized that she had essentially given Minerva the win for their little battle and had walked her **_home_**.

 

Naturally, Minerva wasn’t about to pass up that opportunity to tease.

 

“Thank you, Miss Black, for the walk home.”

 

The door slammed close in her face before she could even get a word. Utterly defeated in their little game, Bellatrix could only hang her head and groan loudly enough to wake the portraits in the nearby corridors. With no need to look she knew that Albus’ eyes would be twinkling in amusement.

 

“Oh, I am so fucked.” She sourly grumbled. 

 

A fond tone, that Bellatrix couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not, Albus spoke, “Don’t worry, Miss Black, I’ll walk **_you_** home.”

 

Bellatrix could hear the grin in the Headmaster’s grandfatherly voice. Feeling pretty terrible and honestly furious, she then turned to look in the Headmaster's direction and she was overcome with yet another wave of rage; Albus Dumbledore’s dancing eyes were really starting to piss her off.

* * *

A couple more weeks had passed since Colin being petrified, and while Bellatrix had eliminated more than half her guesses, she wasn’t really any closer to find the correct one, either. Every time she crossed one guess out, another seemed to rise out of the research she was conducting. It was setting her – and everyone in the school – on edge.

 

The Ministry had already discreetly contacted her, asking if she could investigate on her own or if she wanted help. Bellatrix had scoffed and had had half a mind to march to the ministry’s office and slap her War Record in their faces. As it was, just she was about to do just that, the newspaper acclaiming the passage of the Muggle Protection Act caught her eye. She sat back down at her desk with a smirk when she realized exactly why the Ministry was on top of her; Lucius was the one behind this, she was sure. She had slighted him with that Muggle Act, and he was trying to retaliate. Well, it would not work, he could choke on his own ego for all she cared.

 

She sipped a glass of her much-needed-firewhiskey with a grimace. It had been a gruelling day, and it was only noon. She was close to tearing her own damn hair out of her head; she had far too much on her plate. The house that had to be ready before the ever-itching Summer, taking care of 7 different levels of classes, the whole damn attack situation and now on top of it all she had to deal with Lucius Malfoy butting in on her business.

 

Speaking of the Devil, his little lookalike was just knocking on her door. Bellatrix hid the glass of whiskey - no need to have Draco blabbering off to his mother and get her in trouble – and said a small ‘Come in’, prompting the door to be opened. Her nephew opened the door to her darkened office with a wince, probably remembering his punishment with baby Potter about a month ago.

 

 “Hi, auntie.” Draco came in, a perfect mixture of Malfoy – blond hair, tall frame, elegant nose – and Black – the grey in his blue eyes, the long neck, the striking jaw. Now with a scar on his handsome face, even if it was healing nicely.

 

“Nephew.” She stood from her seat and welcomed him into her arms, glad to have him safe and sound, if only for her own health lest her sister come and accuse her of putting her boy in danger. She then gestured for him to a seat, “What can I do for you?”

 

Draco sat down on the chair and handed her two envelopes. Looking at the crisp paper and elegant writing, Bellatrix knew it to be her sister’s; an invitation to the Yule Ball she was throwing that year. She fiddled with the envelopes, opened one and marked the ‘Yes’ option on the letter. That one, she handed to Draco, the other one she put atop the paperwork in her desk. At Draco’s quizzical and eager look, she promised him.

 

“I’ll mail the other one later, Draco. He’s off on a retreat somewhere, and quite unreachable I’m afraid. I’m not sure if he’ll even be able to make time to come. So, don’t get your hopes up.”

 

Draco nodded, but he looked a little gloomy at her news. Bellatrix sighed and patted her nephew’s shoulder comfortingly. When he merely shrugged off her efforts, Bellatrix knelt in front of the chair and pulled up his chin, so she could look in his eyes. There was something bothering him, much more than some possible absence in the Yule party her sister was throwing.

 

“What’s wrong?” With Draco one had to use careful, soft tones. The boy was irritable, and prone to lashing out: quite a bit like a Black her Malfoy nephew, she had to admit.

 

“Grandmother already sent a refusal.” Draco mumbled under his breath.

 

Bellatrix could curse her mother until the next week for the things that woman put her grandson through. Draco was the only one Druella saw regularly, and by that Bellatrix meant that the old crone saw Draco about once-a-year for her birthday. Lucius would take him and the three of them would have lunch. Neither Narcissa nor Bellatrix were ever invited, nor did they **_want_** to be invited.

 

“You do know that your grandmother isn’t coming to one of these things **_ever_ ,** don’t you?” She was careful with her tone; she knew how much he wanted to see his grandmother more than the once-a-year lunch he had with her, “And why would you want her there so much, Draco? She’s not exactly great company these days.”

 

Of course, that could entirely be Bellatrix’s own fault for choosing the Order instead of their side. Druella Black had closed herself off from High Society in the early 70s, hiding out deep in the French countryside, when after during a particularly bad raid, Bellatrix’s status as being opposed to **_him_** had been revealed. And then, after **_he_** had disappeared and Bellatrix’s father went to jail, Druella didn’t have much need or want to return to England.

 

“It’s not just that!” Draco insisted, “ ** _She_** ’s not coming, Leo’s not coming…”

 

“Leo **_might not_** be coming.” She forcefully corrected, and then modulated her tone, “Besides you either get Leo or you get your grandmother, you know as well as I do that…”

 

“They hate each other.” Draco sighed, “I know, I know.” After a “It’s just that…” Draco mumbled, “She’s the only one who talks about **_before_** … You and mum never talk about grandfather, for example.”

 

Bellatrix felt her shoulders stiff and her face twist in a scowl, “Yes, well, there’s a reason we never talk about Daddy.”

 

Draco hummed and Bellatrix could hear the thoughts in her nephew’s mind, she really needed to start training him in Occlumency if he was this rotten. _And yet, both you and mum still call him Daddy. And we always invite Grandmother to family lunches, dinners, and Winter Balls even if she never deigns to make an appearance and no one bats an eyelash. No one talks about the former Black generation, it’s as if they have forgotten it._

 

“Draco,” Bellatrix sighed, “you’re still too- “

 

“If you say ‘young’, Auntie Bella, I’m going to scream.”

 

As always, whenever someone used that nickname – **_Tom’s_** nickname for her. His, his, his and his **_alone_** , no matter how many people had called her that before him – she flinched, unable to hide the hurt, the very anguish that took her every sense whenever someone, **_any_** one – hell, any ** _thing_** _–_ reminded her of him. Draco, of course, missed it. Too young, no matter what he claimed, far too young to understand why the war and its consequences still weighted heavily on her and their family. Still, it wasn’t his fault; she understood that she had to be the adult in the room and deal with as much finesse as she could.

 

“Dragon,” she called his nickname. Her voice, while not harsh, didn’t beget that sweet trace that Narcissa always used when she talked to her boy, “listen, it’s **_complicated_** and not for the faint of heart. And **_yes_** , you’re still too young.”

 

Draco scoffed, and for a single moment Bellatrix heart clenched. _Oh Gods, Regulus._ There was a reason she tolerated Lucius week in and week out to spend some time with her nephew; Draco’s bearing wasn’t his father’s or Narcissa’s, hell, it wasn’t even Bellatrix’s. Draco was her baby cousin Regulus through and through, pure and simple. Conflicted, lost, regal in his own way, whip smart even if dumb as a rock sometimes.

 

There were many people she missed from the old days. The people who had stopped talking to her for her refusal to join a side proper; her mum was a particular sore spot, her middle sister, for not committing earlier and not visiting her half-blood brat. People who were in Azkaban; Rabastian Lestrange who had always stolen her for a dance at every party no matter what side had been on, Evan Rosier who she had met every other week for lunch between the two of them who had always adored each other, and even her cousin Sirius, with his infuriating personality. People who had died; the Prewet Twins, Frank Longbottom, Roland Rookwood, and James Potter, even.

 

And of those people who, in one way or another, had impacted her life, out of all of those only one came close to leaving her devastated as Tom’s absence did; Regulus. She missed him, intently. Her baby cousin. Gods, how had it been since he died? It was approaching the thirteenth year; she was sure.

 

“Auntie Bella,” this time her wince was more pronounced she was sure, but Draco still hadn’t caught on, “I’m not too young! I’m twelve! I’m old enough to know about my own damn family!” The boy continued his whining.

 

He acted so grown-up sometimes that she often forgot that he was just twelve. A **_child_** who was probably terrified for his life, because while the attacks were supposedly only to strike Mudbloods – if the first attack was to be believed – that didn’t mean that the boy wasn’t afraid.

 

Fear, after all, was rarely logical. A fact that she was very much aware of, since the fear that her nephew would be next had been plaguing her nightmares for days now. She wasn’t used to failing or used to her considerable research skills to flunk so spectacularly. In need to reassure herself, Bellatrix rose from the chair and circled her desk to come to stand besides Draco, and before he could say anything, Bellatrix enclosed him tightly in her arms.

 

“Auntie!” He whined but quickly wrapped his arms around her, burrowing further into the comfort of their embrace.

 

Bellatrix clutched him close to her, and whispered quietly, “Indulge me, Draco.”

 

When Narcissa had first gotten pregnant she had made Bellatrix swear to never to treat her son the way their family had treated them. Because while their parents had spoiled them rotten with gifts and affection, their relationship with their Uncles and Aunt was always stiff and cold. No warmth to be found in neither Walburga, Orion or Alphard. And her parents had been the same with Sirius and Regulus.

 

Narcissa didn’t want that for Draco. She wanted her son to know her family, to spend time with his aunt and her family, to get to know her and respect her as he did his mother. Bellatrix knew – had always known – that if something happened to Narcissa, she would want Bellatrix to take Draco.

 

So, Bellatrix, for the sister who had accepted her role in the war even if was on the opposite side of her – unlike their other sister, who really had no reason to complain–, for **_Narcissa_** , she had tried her damned hardest for Draco. And lo-and-behold, a relationship had grown; one that both her and Draco treasured, she knew.

 

Draco was the first to break their self-imposed silence.

 

“Don’t forget we got duelling club in 20 minutes.” He quietly reminded her, still in her embrace, clearly aware that the moment to ask questions about their side of the family was long gone or, perhaps, aware of her reluctance to speak of her father.

 

Her heart caught in her throat at the sweet gesture, she spoke just as quietly, “I won’t forget. I’m just finishing here, Draco.” And wanting to reward him for his understanding, she smiled, “One day I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

 

“Good.”  He disentangled himself from her and her cocky nephew was back in place, “I can’t wait to beat Potter.”

 

Bellatrix huffed a snort as Draco left the room, leaving her alone with her papers again. Draco was like a dog after a bone when it came to Baby Potter, always chasing after him, always ‘Potter this’ and ‘Potter that’… Yes, it was all very clear to her.

 

“Oh, he **_so_** has a crush on the Potter boy.” Bellatrix snorted and took a grimacing mouthful of the well-aged-firewhiskey before gathering her things for the club as her mind didn’t leave her nephew’s word, “Well, he’s certainly a Black. He has terrible taste in men.” Bellatrix snorted one last time as the image of her own former paramour entered her mind. _Oh, yes. It’s practically a family requirement._

* * *

After making sure she had everything she needed for the Club, she left her office about half-an-hour later than she should. She didn’t mind, Severus was the one dealing with the class Second Years alone, if nothing else, the state of the Great Hall would be interesting. Just as she was about to enter the room when the ghost of Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington smiled at her.

 

“Ah, _Mademoiselle Black, quelle plaisire de la voir_!”

 

“ _Monsieur de Mimsy-Porpington,_ how nice of you.” She didn’t exactly return the greeting but made at least her appreciation of his greeting known. She was a Black after all and the Ghost, even if he had been living, was well beneath her standing.

 

Without even turning once more, Bellatrix marched on to the Great Hall. Once she pushed the doors opened, while not a complete disaster, she could see that Snape hadn’t done that great in her absence. There were shouts and yelling and cheering as students threw spells at each other right and left. Sneaking an eye to her left, she saw the Granger girl pulling the hair of… Millicent? She couldn’t believe Snape was stupid enough to make pairings of opposite houses.

 

Just as she was wondering if she should just leave and let Snape deal with the kids, the greasy-haired man saw her.

 

“Finally, Bellatrix!” Snape didn’t quite snarl at her, but with his usual mulled demeanour he might as well have, “I’ve been alone with them for a half-an-hour, now.”

 

“I have other responsibilities. Mainly, figuring out what the hell is out there, petrifying people.”

 

Snape growled at her, but before he could say anything else, Bellatrix, clapped her hand together and let out a loud whistle.  The scene frozen in a ludicrous display; arms hanging in the air ready to strike down, ruddy red faces of students, hairs mangled, uniforms dishevelled…

 

“Well, there is certainly a lot of duelling here.” Bellatrix said, a small smirk to her face, “Mister Thomas, please tell me, how do you initiate a duel?  

 

Dean Thomas still slightly leaning over Theodore Nott, fist in the air, hummed, “Hmmm… Wait until three before you attack?” Bellatrix lifted a single eyebrow and looked meaningfully at him, “Ma’am, this is… hm…”

 

Tired of seeing the boy drowning himself, she cleared her throat, “How about the more common rule of ‘using your wands’?”  Like she thought, most students carefully rose to full heights and waited for her to continue, “Alright, people. Me and Severus over here will explain the rules with a little mock duel. And then a couple of you will go up the platform for a little show of your own.”

 

She turned towards Snape who honestly looked a passive by the quick way she had handled the situation and she realized that he had let things get so out of hand just to have her deal with it. Asshole. Without even confirming with him she climbed up the platform that would serve as their stage.  Snape climbed a little after her, and they met in the middle.

 

“First, you bow.” Bellatrix lectured, “Showing respect for your opponent’s skill.” Both she and Snape gave a rather shallow bow, “Then, ten steps back.” Again, they both walked back to the ends of the platform, “And then, you count to three… One!” She got in position, wand raised forward, and the other hand raised above her head.

 

“Two.” Snape continued, one hand behind his back and other with his wand raised up in an arc.

 

She could feel her blood having an internal battle, freezing her veins in disgust for the man in front of her and then, boiling with an unrestrained thrill of battle. She felt herself lick her lips in anticipation, subconsciously, without thinking, in a pure out body experience that left her in automatic mode born out of years and years of battle no matter how long ago they might have been. She saw Severus cold, dark eyes burning with **_something_** that Bellatrix hoped was disgust and not lust. 

 

“Three!”

 

Severus started, sending an  **Incarcerous** her way which she dodged and put up a shield just in time to see him send a…  was that  **Sectumsempra**? For a demonstration? Well, now she had more than enough reason to nail him. With the renewed promise of being able not to old back, Bellatrix felt her blood rush through her veins, instinct taking over as she let her body drive her towards the finish line. 

 

Snape was looking at her, seemingly having caught her newfound attitude and seemed to brace himself. While they had never dueled during the War when Snape had been on _**his**_ side, she had heard stories of his proficiency and was unsurprised to see him straightening himself, reading himself for a true show.  

 

An impasse asserted itself for a single second, not enough for the students to notice, but for their whole strategy to change on a dime. Snape attacked first an  **Avis** which while she was busy dodging, he followed by an  **Atmofulmus**  – a spell that conjured lightning clouds - and the room rumbled and crackled with the anticipating lightning.  

 

She could hear the students’ thoughts and gasps. And she knew that Severus could hear it, too. It enraged her, really, how good she had to admit he was. But it thrilled her too. A good opponent, no matter how sleazy she found their character was exactly what she needed. 

 

There were problems with that spell that Severus conjured: first, it was too volatile, a thing that Bellatrix was sure he knew, second it took a while to charge a lightning strike and third it left him drained while he tried summoning lightning. She could follow up with the obvious counter-curse  **Fulmo** **Vergo** – which caused the target to attract lightning strikes – but that was too obvious.  

 

No, she needed something more… ingenious. A thought formed in her head and before she could contemplate the outcomes, she let her instincts take over, they had never been wrong after all. Instead of counteracting the lightning clouds she’d add to them, making the spell even more volatile. She’d have to be fast too, Snape was already readying to strike with another spell,  **Incendio** , which she extinguished before it spread.  

 

There was another lightning spell, much more dangerous to everyone involved, but it would do nicely to disrupt Snape’s – quite frankly,  ** _masterful_**  - control of the  **Atmofulmus** spell. With a descending arc, she saw Snape’s eyes widen as he tried to undo his spell, but he was too late. 

 

With a clear voice, she spoke, wind sweeping her hair as she channelled her energy into the strike, “ **Fulgus**.”  

 

Lightning immediately started raining down near Snape, Bellatrix gritted her teeth trying to maintain the strikes precise. It wasn’t to hit Snape, that would injure him severely and there was no need for that at the moment but charging his spell with enough energy so that he would be too busy controlling it to notice what she was doing.  

 

While her lightning caused havoc on Snape’s spell, she focused on the rug under them. With a quick and silent  **Arricneo** , the rug from under them started bucking.  

 

With some difficulty, trying to keep herself standing and keeping Snape’s spell away from the students, a battle of wills asserted itself. Both she and Snape fighting over control of his spell, and while Bellatrix sidestepped the bucking rug Snape who hadn’t seen it coming, fell to the ground with a thud his wand sparling over to her side of the battle. Bellatrix quickly gained control of the  **Atmofulmus** spell and reigned it in.  

 

And now, with both the small lighting storm under control, Snape with no wand and nursing a bruised back – and ego – now, she could finally use the counter spell. Keeping one trembling hand controlling the storm, the other – the one with her wand – started moving counter-clock wise and just as she was about to shout ‘Fulmo Vergo’, Snape seeing her intention form miles away, yelled out. 

 

“I YIELD!” The shout, coming from Snape’s panicked voice was enough for the whole room to come to a standstill. 

 

Bellatrix dropped the spell immediately, but not without a look at Snape that screamed ‘I-don’t-trust-you’ and ‘Yes-I-beat-you’ and a final ‘Don’t-you-dare-try-me’.  With some difficulty, she rearranged the Great Hall into the original state needed for the Duelling Club. 

 

“As you can see, children,” She was being callous now, she knew, but there was no way she was going to pass this opportunity, “There is no shame in wielding and running. If your opponent is stronger than you, it might just save your life.” 

 

While her words were true, she knew that the point hadn’t been hammered in. After all, she  ** _was_**  mockingthe man who had wielded, but she suspected that most kids got what she meant out of her words. Besides, it was scarce the student that liked Severus, anyway; she might have just won some points with some students, the eyes of Gryffindor students were certainly shining with amusement.   

 

Still, in the spirit of being the bigger person, she looked at Snape asking if he needed help. The kids might not hear the contempt in her voice, but she was sure that Severus could. He managed to press his lips together to form what might have been a smile but came out as a grimace. When Snape was upright again – and while not quite glaring at her, it was close enough – she turned to the students and looked around taking in the excited faces of the students. Everyone wanted to be next, even after the little spectacle she and Snape had put on. Perfect, now all that was left was to choose the next participants.

 

“Malfoy. Potter. Get up, here.” Snape spoke before she could even start thinking about it, the smug look in his eyes told her that he had done that to rile her up. She was close to putting a stop to it when Draco’s face entered her view. He wanted this, and really, Bellatrix couldn’t blame him.

 

Ever since he was young Draco always wanted to be friends with the Boy-Who-Lived, had always loved the story that was on everyone’s lips for the years following **_his_** disappearance. Hell, Draco’s fascination with the Boy-Who-Lived was something that had saved Lucius after the First War. So when he arrived at Hogwarts, and had tried to befriend the kid that he always wanted to be his friend only to fall flat on his face… Well, Draco was many things, but he wasn’t one to let an insult slide by without returning the favour… And so the rivalry had begun. She didn’t want to interfere.

 

She watched her nephew and Baby Potter walk up the stair of the platform and she moved to the side, so she could see them perform.

 

“Scared, Potter?” Bellatrix knew that the smirk on her nephew’s face was a smug and as sleezy as he could make it – sickeningly similar to his father’s, much to Bellatrix’ repulsion – knowing it would annoy the living hell out of Gryffindor’s Golden boy. 

 

“You wish.” Draco’s smile grew as Potter rose to his challenge.  

 

 _Well, if Draco likes a challenge, then he’s certainly well matched,_  Bellatrix thought as she saw Draco and Baby Potter bow and walk towards the opposite ends of the track. Bellatrix watched as they put themselves in a comfortable pose; Draco, not so dissimilar to hers, hand raised above his head, wand pointed straight out and then Harry, trying to imitate Draco, clearly not having the same proficiency due to the many years he spent in the Muggle World. 

 

“On the count of three!” Bellatrix reminded and the whole room seemed to hold its breath, “One! Two! Thr-…” 

 

Before she could finish, Draco was out with a loud, “ **Impedimenta**!” the spell hit true and just then, Baby Potter was flying high and slamming his arse hard on the floor. Riotous laughter from the Slytherins and groans of sympathy for Gryffindors later, and Bellatrix knew she had to intervene – even if she really wanted to laugh along with the Slytherins.

 

“Stop!” She didn’t yell, but the whole room seemed to quieten as if she had. Bellatrix strode up the stage and walked forward, past Draco with a quick disappointed look which he didn’t shrink at but seemed to take it hard, to where Harry was. She lifted Baby Potter’s arm above his head, “First round goes to Potter.”  

 

The Gryffindors cheered, and some Slytherins were eyeing her with something akin to betrayal in their eyes. Nothing she wasn’t used to, after all, she had betrayed her whole House and her whole Family when she joined the Order; a bunch of twelve-years-old would not get to her. Once the room quietened again, she turned to Draco who was eyeing as if he knew what she was about to say. 

 

“You want to win, Mister Malfoy? Then  ** _follow_** the godsdamned rules and be  ** _better_** than your opponent.” Now the Gryffindors were booing, the bunch of devils these kids. She walked towards Draco to resume her place and said quietly, “I know you can do better than this. You don’t need tricks to beat him.” She paused and gave him a little something to enrage him, “Not  ** _yet_** _,_ anyway.”  

  

The look in his eyes was all Black. It was not bragging to say that all Blacks with a little dedication could be brilliant; they had the power and the means to achieve greatness should they want it. But sometimes, without that little push – be it jealousy, a desire to prove oneself, a need to rub it in someone’s face – without a  ** _drive_** , they wouldn’t get anywhere. Draco’s drive, for the time being, rested in beating Baby Potter.

 

From her place, she yelled out, “On **_three_**!” she emphasised on the number looking pointedly at Draco, “One. Two. **_Three_**.”

 

“ **Serpensortia** _._ ”  A white jet of light left his wand and from it a snake was wrought. It impressed Bellatrix, Draco was trying to scare Harry into focusing on the snake while he tried to figure a way to beat him.

 

But then, the Potter boy started hissing.  ** _At the snake_**.  _Ohhhhh_ _, what the hell??_ The thought was apparently shared with Snape who was looking at Potter with a muted look of disbelief in his eyes. In a reflex born out of being a professor for much longer, Snape vanished the snake who was darting close to a Hufflepuff boy.  

 

For the first time since she’s known Severus, they seemed to be in agreement. With no need to look at each other, Snape started packing the room as the whispers of the crowd of students rose to almost unbearable heights. For her part, Bellatrix made Draco and Harry join their classmates, both of them still looking a little stunned.

 

“Dismissed.”

 

It took Bellatrix starring at them, resolute, for every student to turn to leave, but as they did so Bellatrix tried to look discreetly into Harry’s mind only to find she couldn’t. Frowning, she tried again a little more forcefully, so much so that Baby Potter’s hand rose to his head, and still nothing.

 

It was  ** _blocked_**. Bellatrix panicked instantly, this boy shouldn’t be able to block her attempts,  _Why the fuck is it blocked?!_ Bellatrix realized that she was too frenzied to attempt again, not without damaging Baby Potter and announcing her interest in him. Nevertheless, the possibility of the Chamber being real had become much more reasonable now, with a veritable candidate to open said Chamber,  _What the fuck do I do now?_  

 

A thought that the Potter boy might be  ** _his_**  son passed through her dazed mind. At least it did, for a single second. Not only was she sure that he hadn’t, that he just  ** _couldn’t_**  have for his own damn good, but… Baby Potter was just that, a Potter. Easy to see in his face and colouring, replicated through years-and-years of pure magic blood flowing through his family’s veins. 

 

At that she relaxed. The boy was a Potter, there was no way he had turned to the person who had murdered his parents. No way.  _Unless…_  

 

A yell came from the hallway causing Bellatrix to curse as she ran toward the sound even as Snape took an instinctive step back, always protecting himself first.  _Coward!_  Her mind snarled loudly at his, and she delighted in his flinch as her thoughts invaded his.  

 

Bellatrix quickly turned the corner from where the sound had come from and almost collided with Baby Potter. Seeing his ashen face staring directly ahead, looking like the terrified kid he was, Bellatrix, without even thinking, pushed the boy behind her at the same time she took out her wand. When she turned to see what had the boy so scared, she stopped cold.

 

The ghost of Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington hovered eerily unmovable in the air while the body of a Hufflepuff boy laid, frozen and as grey as the stone-cold floor of the corridor.  As the corridor behind her and Baby Potter filled with clamouring, gasping students a single thought ran through her head. 

 

_Oh, fuck me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ll have to rip Bellatrix-is-a-people-person Head canon out of my cold, dead hands. Well, at least she has a lot of people she loves is my point. More than she loves Voldemort? Well, you’ll have to wait and see.
> 
> And of course, the Bellatrix VS Snape was completely necessary and not at all a self-serving plot point. I swear
> 
> Notes:
> 
> 1\. Ancient Duncliffe Woods are a real location in England and that region does have marble complexes, that said, there is no mountain there. I decided to put the Black Ancestral Home there because the Woods are actually protected by the state (or so would the story go if an Ancient Magical Noble Family decided to settle their mansion there).  
> 2\. MIRCUSI – is not a plant that exists, but it is based on Cirsium Vulgare, (AKA Common Thistle) a weed – that’s not poisonous – but has purple flowers and hardy thorns and grows to 2m tall (or 6ft7in). Mircusi is a rearrangement of the word Cirsium and I yeah I know I cheated by using the Genus name instead of Vulgare which gives the species its name, but with Vulgare the thing I was able to do was Ravelug…  
> 3\. About the crush Draco has on Harry, I generally agree that 12 is a bit too early to start effectively ‘dating’, but this is a crush we’re talking about, at 12 I had crushes but my first relationship was at 15, maybe? So yeah, Draco has a crush on Harry but they’re not getting together for a long, long time.  
> 4\. Nicholas is strictly an English Knight, but I put him speaking French with Bellatrix because it’s a matter of status that he knows Bellatrix appreciates. He basically said ‘What a pleasure to see you, Miss Black’
> 
> So tell me what you think.


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